


Little Aurora

by onawingandaswear



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alaska AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bitty lost his hockey scholarship and became a vlogger, Comfort/Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Jack Zimmermann went missing in 2009, Loosely Inspired by the Film 'Mystery Alaska', M/M, Meet-Cute, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Once Upon A Time, Secret Identity, Snowed In, Vlogger!Bitty, he still keeps in touch with some of his old SMH teammates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: Five years after dropping out of college, Eric Bittle is working full time as a vlogger, traveling across the country looking for content, and, more importantly, the part of himself that’s been missing since he left Samwell University.When a storm strands him in a small Alaska town, Eric stumbles into a relationship with a camera-shy hockey coach hiding more than a few secrets about his past — the kind of secrets Eric can't quite edit his videos around.Now, with a scandal brewing and the media ready to descend on their tiny winter hamlet, Eric has to figure out how undo the damage he's caused and protect his new boyfriend, Laurent, who might just be long-lost hockey royalty.
Relationships: Alicia Zimmermann/Bob Zimmermann, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 342
Kudos: 628





	1. Part I — Mystery, Alaska

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this has only been in the works for about three years now! This story is loosely inspired by the 2000 film, 'Mystery, Alaska', wherein a tiny Alaskan town built around hockey challenges the New York Rangers to an exhibition match and almost wins. For the purposes of this story, the match did take place in the OMGCP universe, though the publicity stunt has largely been forgotten.

**_Part I - Mystery, Alaska_**

* * *

* * *

Eric Bittle is fifteen, exasperated, and holding a place for his mother in the checkout aisle of the ‘good’ Kroger near the high school — the one with the renovated produce section and the butcher who flirts with _everyone_ , Suzanne Bittle included — when his attention lands on a copy of Southern Home boasting a cover shot of a gorgeous chicken pot pie.

It’s glorious, the last copy, and Eric clutches it tightly, already changing his mother’s dinner plans, when Suzanne herself appears with an overflowing buggy and proclaims, “Oh, Dicky, we have that at home, Judy brought her copy over just yesterday.”

The line’s moved just enough Eric can’t reach without making a nuisance of himself so he waits until his mama isn’t looking and quickly shoves it into another slot, covering an issue of People displaying a candid shot of a distraught celebrity couple and a partially obscured headline reading: _‘—mann Family Tragedy’._

Eric shuffles back into the queue and continues loading groceries onto the belt. He thinks about homework, dinner, icing his bruised knees and making plans to sharpen his skates because he’s just learning how to play hockey.

* * *

* * *

Excerpt from _’_ ** _ERB HEADED NORTH(WEST)??? BIG NEWS Y’ALL’_** _,_ Uploaded June 12th, 2017:

_“— I am incredibly excited to announce that I will be continuing my fifty state tour this fall! With the help of some amazingly generous sponsors, who you will meet soon enough, and more than a little homebaked bribery, I’ll be knocking out some of the Pacific Coast: Washington, Oregon, and, y’all, say a prayer for me because I’m finally heading to our own Great White North — Alaska! To be honest I don’t know what the heck I’m going to get up to in all that snow and ice, but they keep telling me it ain’t that bad in the fall so, I’m just gonna cross my fingers because this Georgia boy doesn’t have the best luck when the seasons start shifting —“_

* * *

* * *

Eric Bittle is twenty-three, single, and he’s going to freeze to death in the middle of Nowhere, Alaska, because his producer can’t be bothered to check weather forecasts.

“You said the next flight to Anchorage is Tuesday?" Eric yells over the roar of the wind, bunching his scarf tightly to cover his face. "What am I supposed to do until then? I’m on a schedule!“

“Leisure trips have been suspended for emergency travel. I can't risk flying you out until the system clears.“

“It's not leisure!” Eric checks his phone, hoping to make a call to someone — anyone — and sees ' _No Service_ ' cheerily lit up in the corner. Russell, Eric's would-be pilot, shrugs sympathetically and hikes a finger over his shoulder toward the snow-haloed lights in the distance. “This is an emergency! The future of my _career_ is an emergency!”

“Listen, kid, your career isn’t worth dying for. I can get you to town and make sure you're settled in until the front rolls through. My buddy has a spare room he lets out for cases like this, stranded hunters and the like. He’ll probably let you stay there free, he’s got a soft spot for guys like you.”

" _Pardon?_ "

Eric stops fussing with his hood, convinced he’s misheard, but sure enough Russell repeats himself. Of course this is how his Alaska trip would go; he could have filmed on a whale watching cruise, he could have gone skating. Instead, he has to contend with ice, snow storms, and now, apparently, anonymous mountain men with designs on Eric's delicate person. Lovely.

“Guys like me?”

“What? Don’t misunderstand me now,” Russell seems to realize he’s said the wrong thing and backtracks as Eric contemplates how to weaponize his current wardrobe. “Laurent? Works at the guide shop? He was supposed to help with the tour, did I not put that in the email?“

"No, you didn't mention another guide,” Eric complains, following Russell to his truck. “Especially not one who will give me a break on lodging because I’m a ‘guy like me’,” Eric doesn't hide his displeasure and Russell offers an apologetic wince.

"Aw, hell. I didn't mean to be lewd, kid, he's not a creep or anything, he likes _tourists_. He’s big on helping out. It's just, you said you were gay and he's — he's considerate like that. Wouldn’t take it the wrong way.”

Eric lifts a hand to stop him because the man is genuinely trying to be helpful and it's too cold to keep skirting accidental insults. "It's fine. Really. There’s nowhere else to stay? No hotels?”

“Not unless you want to hoof it to the Days Inn next town over, but that’s forty miles at least and the roads are shit. Mystery doesn't have a lot of tourism anymore and everything’s booked up for the hockey tournament. Laurent's my go-to guy for cases like this.” Russell pauses. "Not just because of the gay thing."

 _“Bless your heart,”_ Eric sighs under his breath, sending a quick prayer upstairs before climbing into the cab as Russell lifts Eric's bag into the bed of his truck, where it makes an almost soundless landing thanks to the amount of snow present to cushion the fall. Eric wishes he could even see a little of the town they're driving through, but the snow is so thick all he can do is record quiet b-roll, catching the headlights, the large flakes, the 'atmosphere'.

If he uses the right screengrab he'll net 100k views, easy, because nothing says monetization like the threat of physical harm. _Especially_ on a cooking vlog.

* * *

When they slide into town —literally at the end there, tires slipping on black ice so dark Eric thought they were still on a road — Eric finds the truck has parked in front of a strip of brick buildings along the main drag, two stories with shops below and what looks to be apartments upstairs; something that wouldn’t look too out of place home in Madison if not for the backdrop of a blinding snowstorm.

"What are we waiting for?" Eric asks, still warming his hands over the heater vent while Russell checks his phone.

"Laurent said he's helping Eileen shovel before the snow gets too deep, he should be here in a few."

“In the middle of the night?”

“Well, it’s a few inches now or a foot tomorrow and Ellie has a bad back, so —”

Eric pulls off his gloves and reflexively checks his own phone, forgetting the ‘no service’ issue, but taking the opportunity to film a video of himself bundled up against the cold. In his head he starts working out the script, mouthing, _“Hey, y’all, guess who has their butt stuck in a good ol’ Alaskan snowstorm? Too bad I can’t wrap up in one of MooMaw’s quilts with a mug of cider —”_ He pulls a playful pose for the camera when a loud banging on the passenger window startles him so thoroughly he actually screams. Out loud. Like a child. Of course, he catches it all on camera.

"Speak of the devil," Russell laughs, leaning across Eric to knock back. "Hey, man! You cold enough?”

 _"Lord in heaven,"_ Eric breathes deeply to compose himself and turns to see a man in a balaclava waving through the glass. “Hey!” Eric accuses, “You scared me!"

Eric hears a muffled _‘Sorry’_ through the window as he pulls his gloves back on, fighting the chill again when Russell kills the engine to unload Eric’s snow-covered suitcase. A few words are exchanged between the locals, though the wind is so loud Eric can't catch anything concrete, then Russell shouts, "I'll see you on Tuesday," while Laurent motions for Eric to follow him toward the darkened rear of the building.

Great. Now, Eric gets to be murdered.

"Didn't mean to startle you," Laurent's half-hearted apology is garbled by the ski mask while he fumbles with the lock. "Thought you saw me. I was right there."

"Still scared the bejeezus out of me," Eric chides, kicking his boots against the step before coming inside, dragging his case behind him. “I was distracted.”

“Too busy with your selfies?"

Laurent’s mask muffles his words, but Eric knows a chirp when he hears one. He scouts the entryway and finds an umbrella stand full of hockey sticks; which only confirms his suspicions. Eric tugs off his earmuffs and turns to offer a rebuttal only to lose his breath halfway through, because without his balaclava, Laurent is six feet and two-hundred pounds of Eric’s favorite kind of boyfriend material. Bright blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, and a scowl so intense Eric’s half worried his face might stick that way. “You weren’t supposed to be in until Tuesday,” Laurent says brusquely. The man’s gruff demeanor kills any stirrings of arousal Eric feels at the presence of what _sounds_ like a French-Canadian accent.

“We saw the storm front coming in and Rebecca pushed up the departure from Anchorage,” Eric explains. “Clearly Russ didn't give y'all the memo.”

“You’re lucky you’re not dead. You know you’re stuck here for at least a week, right?”

Eric stops smacking his heel against the floor mat to loosen the packed snow on his boots. 

“Easily a week.” Laurent repeats, tugging off his parka. “Longer if the airstrip needs to be cleared.”

“Russell told me you had a room for the night,” Eric keeps his voice even. “If this is going to be a problem, I can look for alternate accommodations tomorrow.”

Laurent tosses his gloves in a bin and gives Eric a hairy eye. "Problem? Why would there be a problem? You can stay here until we get this sorted." It takes a beat, a moment of tense silence between them, but Laurent's defensive posture eases and he curses under his breath. "These storms stress me out, half the time I'm the guy getting a call because someone's stranded and _—_ I probably just need to eat something. I’m happy to have you, I’m just mad I didn’t clean up yesterday. I am sorry about scaring you — the boys keep telling me I'm intimidating as hell when I meet new people, probably doesn't help wearing a mask and shouting at you.”

"Well then," Eric rests his bag on the floor, fighting the near adrenaline rush of relief. He's not totally impressed by the man's demeanor, but he's known enough gruff boys who were nice enough when given a little room to breathe. “Apology tentatively accepted. I’m Eric. It’s nice to meet you, mister…?”

“Laurent’s fine,” he wipes his hand on his jeans before offering it to Eric. “I’m sure Russ said terrible things. He usually does.”

Eric's half expecting Laurent’s handshake to be a dominance-establishing bone-crusher, but the man’s grip is gentle, if cold, adjusting to match Eric’s with no prompting. A quietly thoughtful gesture that tells Eric more than he thought he needed to know. “Only the worst things,” Eric says with a newfound comfort, keenly aware of the limited space between them and Russell's implication about Laurent's preferences.

Laurent cracks a smile and only lets go when he realizes Eric isn't going to be the one to release first. 

“Right. You have to be tired. Would you like me to show you upstairs? I mean, you’re welcome to sleep on the steps, but I think you’ll be more comfortable in bed. A bed.” The slip is purely accidental and Eric can't stop the giggle that escapes him when Laurent's cheeks go from cold-flushed pink to beet-red as he amends, “ _Your_ bed. I mean, a bed. It’s my bed, I bought it, not that you’d be sleeping in _my_ bed, _crisse de calisse_ —” Laurent glares at something over Eric's shoulder before muttering to himself in clipped French. Eric only catches the curse words.

“Bless your heart,” Eric breathes, for the first time in a long time actually meaning it as a compliment. “Sounds like you need sleep about as badly as I do."

"Sounds like,” he agrees, still flushed, and Eric feels a burst of pride at having already knocked this guy on his heels. "Your room is on the right, bathroom to the left. Russ let me know you were coming so I set out a towel.“ Eric moves to grab his bag when the man adds, "There's a lock on the door, too. If you need it."

Maybe it's the ten hours en route, maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it’s because Eric is quickly growing fond of this new stranger, but Eric hikes his bag onto his shoulder, looks his host dead in the eye and says, "Good thing I'm not afraid of the local wildlife, then. Goodnight, Mister Laurent."

"Collins,” the man himself offers, gesturing to his chest like he can’t figure out what to do with his hands. “Uh, my name is Laurent _Collins_.”

Eric’s about ready to apologize for the slight but Laurent cracks a lopsided smile a moment later, revealing a chipped canine, and says, "Oh, hey, I get it, you said ‘wildlife’ because I'm hairy. It’s the beard isn’t it?”

“That I did, and that it is,” Eric offers a parting smile and drags his suitcase to his room, trying not to laugh when Laurent follows a few awkward steps behind because his room is clearly right next to Eric's. "Good night, Mister Collins," Eric throws a wink and Laurent flushes pink.

" _Bonne nuit_ , Mister Bittle,” he responds weakly, making Eric’s heart leap into his throat.

Eric barely has the door shut when he sags against it and slides down to rest on the carpet, completely exhausted and totally flustered. He hasn’t had a day this trying in _months_ , at least since before his first book dropped. Between the flight delays, the fog, the complete dissolution of anything resembling a plan and the awkward man playing host, Eric needs a drink. He also needs to watch his tone. Who does he think he is flirting right off with a rando — he’s going to get _murdered_. He’s imagining all the ways Collins could end him, several being distractingly erotic, when Eric catches a whiff of something sour and leans down to sniff his shirt. Scratch that: he needs a shower. Or a bath. God, what he wouldn’t give for some Epsom Salt and a jacuzzi tub. Who knows, maybe he’ll get lucky; maybe the mountain man has a renovated bathroom. Across the hall, Eric can hear a toilet flush. Mountain Man. Laurent. Blue eyes, dark beard, wide chest, bad timing. Eric very much wants to see him naked. Not even for sex reasons, just research purposes. Does the hair go all the way down? Is he stocky or crazy fit? Is he being flirty because he’s into Eric or is he just an awkward straight man trying to hide his discomfort at giving a stranded homosexual emergency lodging?

So many possibilities, so little time. Eric pulls a coin from his pocket, an Oregon quarter, and stares intently at the scratched up image of Crater Lake. “Don’t fail me now, this one’s a real cutie,” Eric says, running a thumb over the metal before flipping the coin into the air. He catches the quarter, flips his right palm onto the top of his left hand before peeking at the result.

* * *

* * *

Eric rises with the dawn at a respectable 9:56 in the morning and spends an extra ten minutes under the covers trying to acclimate to the cold; or at least that's what he tells himself, because he can hear someone rustling around in the bathroom and that someone is an attractive man Eric may or may not have flirted with the night before.

The slip of pale light creeping through the curtains implies more snow and he finally rolls out from under the quilted comforter when the urge to relieve himself becomes too much. A peek out the window confirms his suspicions: while not as daunting as the blizzard conditions the night before, the sky is still dumping fat snowflakes that have reduced visibility to grey nothingness. Eric’s pulling on a pair of jeans over his old compression leggings when he notices a scrap of paper poking out from under the door.

_Good Morning,_

_I may not be here when you get up, if that's the case, please help yourself to anything in the fridge. The wifi is 'IceTours-Guest', password: 'GoodLuckPuck79'. Russ mentioned you didn't have cell service but you should be able to use messenger through the internet until you can pick up a sim card in town. Maybe if you’re up before the sun goes down, I can make you something for dinner? Make up for scaring you last night._

_— Laurent_

“Oh, _Lord,_ ” Eric stands in the center of the room, half dressed, dragging one leg of his jeans behind him, and contemplates what would happen if he just walked out of the room naked. Fast track this whole thing because he’s only going to be in town a few days.

Eric Bittle is a good southern boy with a solid reputation he will not sully for the sake of a good hard lay. At least not yet. Not until he’s seen Laurent in the light of day and determined if the man is offended by Eric’s perception of his body type. Eric reminds himself he isn’t a criminal (or a pervert) as he peeks into the hallway before darting to the bathroom with an urgency he usually only saves for when he’s crossing a room naked in the middle of the night. He showers quickly after fussing with the faucet so long the hot water is practically gone, and musses his hair into something halfway presentable. A small part of Eric hoped he'd wake up to find his host standing flirtatiously in the doorway of his bedroom. A much larger part of Eric doesn't want to be here at all.

Better to make the best of a bad situation.

* * *

Laurent seems to have traded his snow gear for sweats and a flannel but the most pressing matter immediately becomes the man’s ample backside, which is swaying with an unheard beat because all Eric hears are pundits. As a result, Eric misjudges the distance between his shoulder and the door jamb, which he hits with a solid _crack_ , alerting his host.

“ _Ossie_ , you're up,” Laurent, who Eric has caught off-guard, scrambles to compose himself. "Coffee? Do you drink coffee? Of course you drink coffee,“ he starts fussing with the pilot light on the stove, “you did that series on single origin.” Laurent looks over his shoulder, his hair tamed and swept back from his face, revealing clean skin and disarmingly handsome features. Somehow his eyes are even bluer in the light of day. Eric’s still recovering from his run in with the door when he processes that Laurent just admitted to knowing who he is and having watched his videos.

“You said you weren’t going to be here,” Eric blurts, trying desperately not to let his gaze drift below his host’s chest to where the man's ratty sweatpants are hugging his thighs like a second skin. “Your note?”

Laurent sees through the awkwardness as he fumbles with his phone to silence the podcast, before settling the water kettle on the burner with a heavy _'clink'_.

“Oh, I took care of that already, left you that note about four hours ago. You’re a heavy sleeper, eh? Boots and I were running all over.”

“I usually get up with the sun,” Eric defends, sidling around the other man to snoop, he taps his fingers on the counter, realizing a half second too late that the surface isn't printed linoleum, but actual wood, which does not match the bathroom he just exited at all. In fact, the entire kitchen is updated in a delightfully understated fashion. Eric re-angles himself and frames up the stove, the counters, the cast iron pans hanging on the wall, then, finally, the large window over the sink that should have a view right down the snow covered Main Street. It's perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Are these butcher block counters?"

“This?” Laurent knocks his knuckles against the counter. "I guess? The owner renovated before I moved in, they're great, you just have to oil them every once in a while."

“Can’t believe this is your view,” Eric praises while Laurent fights an embarrassed smile. “ _Lucky_. I bet it’s even more stunning when you can actually see it. If the snow clears in time, would you be alright if I filmed something in here? It’s very rustic.“

The question catches Laurent's attention and he abandons the stove to bodily face Eric. “You’d want to do that here? Your producer said you were looking for something ‘Arctic’. That’s why Russ was working on the putting together the hike up the glacier.”

“You talked to my producer?” Eric’s mind blanks. “When?”

“I’m cc’d on the travel emails,” Laurent switches off the heat when as the kettle begins to whistle, before turning and resting a hand on his chest, lips quirked at one corner as he adds slowly, “I’m your guide.”

“Lord, I thought you were just some random guy!” Eric apologizes, mortified. “This makes way more sense now. Oh, heavens, the glacier hike, I’d completely forgotten.”

“Well, you can keep forgetting. We aren’t getting up there anytime soon.” Laurent motions out the window and sighs. “We had the whole weekend planned before this. Now, there’s too much snow to do much of anything except skate and sleep.”

“Hey. You’re talking to the guy who’s literally grounded because of it.”

"Better make the best of it, then," Laurent hums in agreement and pours Eric a mug of steaming black coffee before nodding toward a cabinet by the fridge Eric assumes must have sugar. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Eric realizes. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I grabbed something in the airport, but, well, red wine and fruit snacks do not a balanced meal make.” Eric takes the mug and inhales deeply, letting the steam warm him. The coffee has a familiar smell. Eric sniffs again before taking a wary sip, “Is that . . . Pike Place? How do you have Starbucks? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“This isn’t Greenland,” Laurent looks like he’s fighting not to laugh as he motions to a small pile of broken down cardboard by the garbage can. They’re clearly marked Amazon boxes. Some even sport the blue ‘Prime’ tape. Beside the boxes there is also, damningly, a large water bowl and food dish haphazardly labeled, _'BOOTS LE CHIEN :)'._

“Oh, so you can get free two-day shipping but I’m stranded for god-knows how long,” Eric fusses, taking another sip. “Do you have any cream? Sugar?”

“Cream? I’ve never seen a cow in my life,” Laurent deadpans, one arm crossed over his chest so Eric can make out the muscles flexing beneath his host’s faded blue-plaid flannel. “And what’s this ‘su-gar’?”

“You’re cute,” Eric counters easily. “But you’re not _that_ cute.”

“Damn, caught me,” Laurent brightens, angling his head toward a cabinet just right of Eric. “Should find all you need in there. You know, it’s a pain to get anything delivered out here. Two-day might mean day after next or three months later in a beat up box, and it’s never free. That said, Marlene down the way was looking for a dishwasher online with ‘free two-day shipping’, accidentally clicked buy, showed up on her doorstep day after next. We still don’t know how it happened.”

“Complete madness,” Eric looks around the kitchen at the piecemeal appliances. “Should call someone about that. Uh, where's your dog?”

“Wandering the neighborhood. She loves fresh powder but she'll turn up soon enough,” Laurent says. “Take the good with the bad, out here,” Laurent smiles again, a wry little thing barely visible under his unkempt facial hair. It does something funny to Eric’s stomach, giving him the opportunity to dig around the the pantry for anything to make his coffee less bitter.

“Oh yeah? And what is the good, exactly? All the snow?”

Eric finds sugar cubes and non-dairy creamer beside tiny jars of honey and jelly clearly lifted from restaurants. He keeps digging, the chef in him eternally curious, and past the instant coffee, behind a zip bag of crunchy brown sugar, Eric finds pay dirt: a glossy bottle of dark syrup stamped with a silver maple leaf.

“I wondered that myself for a long time — ” Laurent says as Eric wraps his fingers around the bottle, push up on his tip-toes to reach, “— what’d you find in there?”

“I have to apologize in advance for snooping,” Eric explains, dropping back on his heels to show Laurent the bottle of molasses-dark maple syrup. “I’m very rude when it comes to kitchens, can't keep my hands to myself.”

“I’m noticing that, _ouais_.”

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Eric asks, failing to keep the excitement from his voice as he checks the stamp on the underside of the glass carafe. “You have to.”

“I own it?” Laurent says, stretching the words into several confused syllables. “It's just maple syrup. You want me to open it? It’s pretty good.”

It sounds a little like a white lie — Eric’s met plenty of guys who don’t like to admit they have secret indulgences — but Eric’s enough of a gentleman to let it slide this time. “ _Maple syrup_ , he says,” Eric scoffs, flashing the silver embellished ‘Z’label before resting the bottle on the counter. “Offering to open it willy-nilly like it isn’t a bottle of _grade A, bourbon barrel aged, Zimmermann Reserve_. They only sell a hundred bottles a year? This stuff is liquid gold.”

“I really couldn’t say,” Laurent’s tone has an edge that indicates to Eric he’s not interested in Eric's excitement. “It’s the same syrup I grew up with. The name is the only thing that makes it expensive. You’re a cook, you should know that.”

Eric clearly tripped something sensitive but that's no excuse for rudeness, even if he crossed a boundary first.

“Not all of us grew up around maple trees,” Eric mocks under his breath, picking the bottle back up, exchanging the hundred-dollar carafe of syrup for a two-dollar box of sugar cubes. When he turns back to Laurent, the man’s gaze is downturned, chastened, and Eric barely catches a few words of rough French. Thankfully, Eric's spent enough time in Paris to know what an apology sounds like. He feels vindicated in a small, selfish way.

"I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't be rooting through your home like a truffle pig."

"You're not a pig —" a soft _thump_ interrupts the moment, followed by a gentle _'wooooo'_ that can only belong to Laurent's aforementioned dog.

"Hey, you can meet Boots," Laurent abandons his mug to head for the door. "You'll love her, she's great." Laurent disappears out of sight, and Eric can hear a rapid-fire stream of fond French clearly directed at the animal waiting outside. Eric has all of three seconds before a massive dog covered in fluffy black and white fur comes bounding into the kitchen, her head coming up to Eric's abdomen as she sniffs at him curiously.

"Oh, my, god!” Eric scrambles up onto the countertop without thinking to put distance between himself and the dog. _"Why are you so huge!"_

" _Easy, Boo_ — she gets excited with guests," Laurent snags Boots by the collar and keeps her from jumping up after Eric. “Not a dog person, are you?"

"No, I love animals," Eric defends, reaching out slowly to touch the puff of fur on top of her head, causing her to whine excitedly. "Just, she's _really_ big."

"Boots? She's a softie. Sorry if she scared you."

"She didn't scare me," Eric huffs, sliding down off the counter, trying to reclaim some small measure of dignity as the dog shoves her face right into Eric's crotch.

"Just like I didn't scare you?" Laurent chirps before making a clicking sound and directing Boots to the food dish. She immediately backs off, giving Eric the distinct impression that Laurent allowed all of this to happen on purpose. Laurent turns away from his dog at looks at Eric curiously. "I can make you something to eat and you can hole up here? Then I can take you to the Grizzly, they have wi-fi, too. Good place to watch the snow and get a feel for the town. I do have practice at three so I'll need to leave again, whatever you decide."

"Practice?"

"Mites." Laurent holds his hand level near his hip, "I coach the mites on Wednesdays. They're pretty cute falling all over themselves if you want to come watch. Little human weeble-wobbles. Might get some cute b-roll."

"You don't have to entertain me," Eric waves his hand over Boots' curved tail to see if she reacts. She snuffles. "But that sounds kinda fun. "

"You're going to make a video about being here I might as well give you something to talk about."

Again, Eric is reminded that he’s supposed to be here to create content and Laurent isn’t just a guy he’s bumped into. This man has likely been on a half dozen email chains for weeks.

"Why do you call her 'Boots'?"

"Looks like she's wearing boots. No points for originality but it fits," Laurent comments, reaching down to scratch her chin. Eric looks down at the dog's paws and sure enough the black fur fades to white as it moves up her legs. "If you want to go sit down I'll make you something real quick. Eggs alright?"

"That sounds awesome, scrambled, please."

"I can do an omelette?"

"An omelette...with cheese?" Eric says reflexively, suddenly hoping he can get Laurent to say it in French.

"Well, now you're definitely getting them scrambled,” Laurent chides. “You think I haven’t heard that joke a million times? _With this accent?_ ”

“Are we good, hon?" Eric directs at the dog. "No more sticking your nose where it don't belong?" Eric holds eye contact, staring into her big brown eyes, trying to make a connection. Boots stares right back, sneezes, then drops to the floor, rolling onto her side with a groan.

"I'd take that as a yes," Laurent steps over his dog to hand Eric a plate of scrambled eggs and what looks like pepper stick. "She'd have bit you by now if she didn't like you."

"That's comforting."

Eric takes a small bite of the jerky and tests the flavors, trying to figure out if it's something local. He realizes a moment too late that Laurent is watching him.

"It's Elk. Is it okay? I can make something else.”

“Oh! No, it’s great, I was just thinking about what to shoot.”

Eric loses the thread of his explanation, eyes catching on a framed Navy recruitment poster over Laurent’s shoulder. Laurent follows his gaze, confused, but when Eric snaps his fingers trying to jog his own memory a smile lights up Laurent’s face.

“Oh, the Leyendecker? Can you believe I found that at an estate sale? It’s an original print. World War I.”

The name rings a bell but Eric’s best subject was never History. Or Art. Before he can admit he’s still clueless, Laurent takes pity and continues, “J.C. Leyendecker? You might know him better from some other stuff,” Laurent leans over the edge of his chair to dig a ratty book out from a short bookshelf shoved under the counter. He thumbs to a dog eared page and returns to show Eric an image he does recognize: a dated football player with an artfully torn jersey. Beside that, a Saturday Evening Post cover featuring a male rowing team and plenty of bare, shining skin. It's delightfully homoerotic and Eric whole-heartedly approves.

“That's why. My father has that picture in his office. He’s a high school football coach,” Eric laughs, pointing at the first image.

"I wish he'd done more hockey art," Laurent flips the page again to show a traditional family scene and a small painting of a goalie, dated 1911. “This is the only one I've ever seen."

"So, humor me, Sugar,” Eric pokes at his eggs. "How does a French-Canadian hockey coach with a penchant for queer artists and political discourse come to end up in Mystery, Alaska?"

"Ha, well, that is a great question," Laurent takes a bite of his own jerky and hums contemplatively, humoring Eric. “Luck, I guess.”

"Luck," Eric echoes. "How many people are up here? A thousand?"

"Closer to about 250 in the off season. Smallest town in the county. Mostly tourists.”

"So," Eric makes sure to flash his flirtiest smile. "Just how blue are your balls?"

Laurent barks a laugh so deep that it immediately sends him into a coughing fit while he grabs his phone. " _Ossie_ ," Laurent gasps, smacking his chest before sliding his chair back from the table. "You should download grindr just to see what the options are. Currently, we have a 19 year old girl who catfishes using a profile picture of Patrick Sharp,” Laurent taps something on his phone and grins slyly before displaying the screen allowing Eric to see a photo of his own abs. “And now, you. Nice picture, bud. You rocking two-a-days between those pies?”

“I do like that photo and I’m ashamed to admit I understood what you said.” Eric plucks the phone from Laurent’s hand, clicking through his profile before handing it back.

“It’d be pretty ballsy if you messaged him.”

“Euh, yeah,” Laurent’s cockiness drains away as he goes pink, taking a drink of water to clear his throat. Eric isn’t even flirting that hard, only matching his host’s energy, and damn if Eric doesn’t seem to be overwhelming the man at every turn.

“Anyway, this place isn't so big I don't know every local. Also the Sharp pic was my idea. Carly had Ryan Reynolds last month. If I can't get her to stop I might as well have fun with it."

Though the subject transition is clumsy, Eric plays the part of the gentleman and allows Laurent to switch subjects.

"Surely that can't be it? Statistically speaking?"

"Everyone's pretty chill up here but it's still an isolated community, you know? Hell, Russ told you about me in, what, fifteen minutes? If that? That's what I get for getting wasted and hitting on the Mayor's son my first month here," Laurent rolls his neck, working out whatever slight tension he's feeling. "Lesson learned. That said, I can handle myself. Love these people but they aren't exactly discreet, you know? If I was some closeted kid I wouldn't want the whole town airing my dirty laundry."

Eric watches the way Laurent fidgets under his scrutiny and fights a grin. “You say that like a man who’s talked to every questioning kid in town. Lord knows if I had a coach that looked like you who was out I’d probably still be playing.”

“You should be careful. That accent of yours makes everything you say sound like flirting,” Laurent leans forward, the corner of his lip curved enough to display a chipped canine. “Stay long enough and you’ll end up with a daisy-chain of Mites trying to give you Valentines.”

“Just Mite crushes?” Eric leans in. “You can’t speak to anyone more age appropriate? No coaches out there looking for a little ' _Southern Comfort_ '?”

"I've been trying to be a good host and you keep throwing pickup lines at me," Laurent counters, covering his blush with a chirp, taking Eric's plate to set it in the sink. "You give a guy ideas."

"Oh, I was beginning to think you didn't notice." Eric can hear his heartbeat in his ears when Laurent turns around bodily to face Eric, face unreadable. "I'm only here for a few days; thought it might be nice to have some company."

"I admit I'm oblivious at the best of times but when a semi-famous twink flirts with me, I notice."

"Semi-famous?" Eric's brief excitement vanishes. “Wait. Did you say ‘ _Twink’_?” 

_“Ouais,”_ Laurent steps forward, pulling out of his slouch and throwing his shoulders back to straighten into his full six-foot-plus, dwarfing Eric.

"Um."

Laurent leans down slightly bringing his face level to Eric's own. "Blonde. Short. Attractive. If you’re going to try to call me ‘wildlife _’_ , you, my friend, can be a ' _twink_ '. Also," Laurent takes Eric's hand and lifts it up to rest against his _firm_ chest. "Not so husky, eh? Good? Get your things, I'll drive you into town proper after I've changed."

As Laurent walks away, Eric's falls back on what he usually does when he's overwhelmed and can't figure out what to do next: he pulls his phone from his pocket, flips to the front-facing camera and hits record.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming soon! Thank you for reading <3


	2. Part II — Laurent and the Real Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Holy hell,” Eric breathes, casting his gaze up to take in the aurora stretching from one end of the sky to the other, a river of purple and green light so bright that even in the dead of night, they’re casting shadows on the snow.
> 
> “Amazing, right?” Laurent asks, sliding in close beside him. “Neat what you can find when you stop staring at a screen.”
> 
> “Can’t believe you’re chirping me right now,” Eric breathes. “But I should be filming this.”

Excerpt from _’_ ** _MOOMAW'S FAMOUS FRIED CHICKEN (STRANDED IN MYSTERY, PART DEUX),_** Uploaded January 13th, 2018

_“Hey, y’all! Welcome back to my channel for a stellar second update from the winter wonderland in which I am stranded for the foreseeable future: Mystery, Alaska! If you want to stay updated on my perilous adventures to find the best local cuisines you've never tasted, be sure to hit those Like and Subscribe buttons, as usual this video is sponsored by Fit Kitchen, your source for lovingly prepared meals delivered right to your door, some even curated by yours truly!_

_Now that that's out of the way, long story short, the plane I was supposed to take to Anchorage ended up in Juneau without me on board and I’m starting to think my life is the plot of a Hallmark movie I haven’t seen yet? It feels like the weather is conspiring to keep me here forever, but the good news is I have a warm bed, an amazing kitchen, and a super cute roommate to keep me company. Y’all are going to have to take my word for it because he’s a little camera shy but trust me, I've got a feeling I'm due for a Winter romance that would make Candice Bergen jealous._

_(That is, if we don’t kill each other first.)_

_But y'all aren't here to listen to me ramble about my nonexistent love life, you're here to cook. Since fresh supplies are a little limited due to the storm, we’re going to shy away from sweet and head to savory! Before you get too excited, know that we’re frying today instead of baking. As a special treat for my new roommate, I will be making my MooMaw’s famous cast iron chicken fried chicken, in snackable tender form. To start, ideally you’d need fresh chicken tenderloins, but since I am bringing you this update from the extra-frozen north, you can accomplish almost the same with thawed extra-frozen chicken breasts, a sharp knife, and a truly ridiculous amount of butter. . ."_

* * *

Eric’s only a few minutes into his latest update when Laurent walks into the kitchen, quickly lifting a hand to cover his face when he realizes his guest is filming; the reaction is surprisingly dramatic and for a brief moment, Eric thinks it’s a joke. 

“Hey, uh, do you mind? I don’t like having my picture taken.”

“It’s a video,” Eric corrects, but the semantics don’t matter. He reaches across the counter to stop recording, adding another mark to his _‘Laurent may still be a murderer’_ tally. “Don’t worry, sugar, I’ll delete it. Do you want me to work on this somewhere else?”

“ _Crisse_ , no, it smells amazing in here. Maybe you could do that, you know,” Laurent waves his hand, almost apologetic, and Eric can guess he’s asking about blurring him out. “The fuzzy thing? That’d be alright.”

While Eric is a little offended, he’s also genuinely curious why a small-town wilderness guide is playing bashful. Under normal circumstances people fall over themselves to be name dropped in his videos, let alone get screen time. 

“Why would you want me to censor you? You in witness relocation? Wanted for murder? On the lam? Is there a bounty on your head? Inquiring minds are dying to know,” Eric half teases, and his barrage of questions manages to elicit a small smile from the bedraggled man.

“Enjoy my privacy, is all,” Laurent offers, after a moment adding, “Also, I’m busy enough without your fans tracking me down.”

Eric lifts a hand to his chest. “So, you _have_ heard of me. Color me surprised!”

“ _Ouais_ , there was a town meeting about you coming.” Laurent turns back to the sink full of dishes, scrubbing away, gifting Eric another glimpse of that gorgeous ass. “Everyone’s on their best behavior.”

“Best behavior for me and my little ol’ camera? I’ve barely been outside. Don’t even have a full crew, seems a bit like overkill to have a whole meeting.” Eric scoots around the small dining table and drops into a seat, getting his fill of the view before Laurent looks over his shoulder warily.

“You’re talking like you don’t have more subscribers than Alaska’s got people. Last thing anyone here needs is someone coming in and making them look like a bunch of hicks.”

Eric had thought they were past the awkwardness, but it looks like his host is still a bit more prickly than he’d let on. That said, Eric doesn’t miss the way Laurent says ‘them’ instead of ‘us’.

“Sugar, I appreciate your concern but I’ve yet to drag anyone through the mud that didn’t deserve it, thank you very much. I’m not the first personality to roll through this town with a camera, so tell me, what crawled up your butt this morning? Nothing as fun as you’d like, I presume given your sass.”

Laurent grumbles under his breath in clipped French, too low and accented for Eric to catch beyond a few emphatic curses as the man wipes his hands and turns around to face him. Eric levels a stern finger at Laurent before he can speak.

“I understood enough of that to know you need to apologize.” 

Laurent’s features slacken, caught off guard. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, a little furrow appearing between his dark, untrimmed eyebrows. “I just don’t want people coming in and turning my life, or anyone else’s, into a story. I know you’re not going to do that here, but accidents happen.”

Eric clocks the dysfunction at a thousand yards, or at least at three feet: At some point in Laurent’s life, someone wrote something unfavorable or caught him on camera at a vulnerable moment. Now he’s worried Eric is going to do the same, taking advantage of him, the town’s hospitality, and make them regret hosting him at all.

“This traveling, coming here? This is my story. No one else’s.” Eric placates, watching the tension ease from Laurent’s shoulders. “I’m not looking to launch a career by mocking small town America. I am small town America. Now, some guy comes at me with a fistful of slurs ready to paint the town red, well that’s a different story. Fiddler was not my fault.”

At the mention of the town, Laurent’s eyes flash with recognition, and Eric knows exactly what this man is afraid of. 

“I’ve been here for years, never had any trouble,” Laurent interjects. “Not with the boys, the hunters, an occasional tourist will give me a hairy eye, but-“

“Laurent, you handsome snow lumberjack.” Eric watches the man’s face twitch at the superlative. “You’re all of six-plus feet and rugged as the mountains I can see out your kitchen window. No one’s giving a boy like you trouble.”

“Rugged as the . . . ? I didn’t used to be like this. These people were just as nice then as they are now. You’d have to be to help someone like me.” 

Laurent catches himself, and Eric gets the distinct impression that he’s holding back more than an origin story when Eric gives him a 'go on' gesture and the man simply scowls in response.

“Hate to break it to you, you’re rugged as all get out,” Eric offers, moving on from whatever his host almost admitted. “Meanwhile, I’m about as rough and tumble as a snowflake in a bonfire, so excuse me for being on my guard.”

“You’re doing it again,” Laurent huffs. “Flirting to distract me.”

“You leave the door open, I’m gonna walk through it. That’s how this works. I’ll stop flirting when you stop eyeing me. I know when a boy’s interested.”

“Who said I’m interested?” Laurent goes pink, the smile tugging at his lips nearly buried behind his beard. “Some half-stack twink flies into town, middle of a blizzard, of course I’m staring. The whole town is.”

Eric closes the lid on his laptop. “Stop calling me a twink, you goon.”

“Oh, I’m a goon now?” Laurent asks, moving a knife block off the counter, considerately out of Eric’s shot. “You’re pretty obsessed with calling me out, haven’t even seen me play. Maybe I can’t skate.”

“If you don’t want to be in this video, you should probably evacuate the kitchen, Mister Sassy. Or I'm liable to stick you in right out of spite.”

Eric’s heart leaps when Laurent drops a heavy hand on his shoulder to give him a gentle shake, fingers lingering longer than strictly appropriate. “I’m sorry I’m an asshole,” he apologizes, taking his water and leaving Eric in peace. “Have fun talking to your imaginary friends.”

* * *

Eric burns away most of the afternoon drinking too-strong coffee, watching the snow fall, and editing his last video from Oregon, Laurent hovering around offering easy chirps and snacks with a regularity that would impress Eric’s own mother. They fall into a comfortable rhythm: Eric asking questions about the town, the hikes they aren’t taking, and in between Laurent takes a surprising number of intense phone calls, answering each with the professionalism and good posture of a job interview. He tries not to listen in, and for a few Laurent even retreats to his bedroom, Boots padding along behind him only to be locked out. 

“So, you’re on the phone a lot,” Eric breaks the silence. “Work? I thought I was your only project during this storm.”

“I can multitask,” Laurent mutters around a pen cap held between his lips as he scribbles on a sticky note before smacking it to the front of a well-loved binder. “A few of the kids I coach are being scouted and I’m helping the families navigate the interest. Scholarships and stuff.”

“Like college?”

The hesitancy is back. That look of distrust. 

“You can’t talk about any of this on your channel,” Laurent cautions. “None of it.”

“Scouts honor,” Eric holds up his hand and Laurent’s frown only deepens.

“I act like an agent on the phone to get better offers or turn partial scholarships into full-rides, that kind of thing. Ever since the Rangers were up here a lot of teams want the novelty of having a player from Mystery, but kids end up tied down in bush leagues with no money because they don’t know any better.”

“This is only adding to your mysterious hockey past,” Eric watches Laurent’s face flush a familiar shade of pink. “And so _noble_. What are you working on right now?”

“A grant for Sawyer. If I can get his application in the right hands there’s a good chance we’ll have scouts out here looking at him. Real ones. Pros.”

Eric saves his progress and closes the lid on his laptop, turning his whole focus on Laurent.

“Do you think the local team would be alright with me doing an episode on them? If the snow clears in time? Maybe I can help get eyes on the kids you’re helping. You said it yourself, I have more viewers than the state's got people, and I went to college with a few guys who are in the AHL right now. Would that do anything?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

“You’ve been so sweet, well, not totally, but you’ve been decent to me and there’s not much I can do to repay the kindness —”

“You could pay.”

“I’m saying I can help.” Eric finishes, crossing his arms on the back of his host’s ratty sofa to stare the man down. “If there isn’t anything usable, I’ll delete it. Pinky swear.”

Laurent crosses the room and loops his rough pinky around Eric’s, giving a gentle shake.

“Fine. Can’t hurt to try.”

* * *

Eric wakes up early on day four —very early, 3:19 am — to the sound of Boots whining in the hall as Laurent stomps around the hallway. Not only is it dark outside, it’s the kind of black that seems to swallow even the lamplight.  He cracks open the door and peeks out. 

“Hey. What are you doing up this early?” 

Laurent only glances briefly at Eric, focused on his packing, but then he looks back, staring pointedly at Eric’s chest. For a moment, Eric wonders if he forgot to wear a sleep shirt and he’s unknowingly naked, but no, his host is looking at the faded ‘Samwell Men’s Hockey’ logo with an appraising eye.

“Remember what Russel said about not leaving before the storm passes? There’s a reason for that.” Laurent bends a knee to attach a bright red reflective harness to his dog, giving her scruff a good rub in the process. Boots whines again, huge furred paws dancing on the hardwood. “Some guys didn’t take that advice, so we need to go out and fetch them, eh, girl? Yeah, we’ll go save them and you’ll be a big ol’ hero. Maybe Eileen will give you another deer leg without telling me.” 

“That sounds really dangerous?” Eric’s awake enough to discreetly unlock the screen and start recording. He can be concerned and do his job. He’s a multitasker, too. “Can I come?”

Laurent rises to his feet, considering, and asks, “What’s you parka rated for?”

Eric hesitates. He doesn’t know. It was on sale at REI and looked cute on him, the only qualifying factors at the time that mattered. Laurent intones his head apologetically, leaning over to bump his fist gently against Eric’s arm, the one holding the phone.

“Stay here, stay warm, I’d like to not rescue another tourist tonight. Don’t wait up. It’s two hours to the reserve and another eight miles into the valley, so I’ll be back late. You need anything, call Eileen, her number’s on the fridge.”

“I bet I’d at least be the most handsome tourist you’d rescue tonight,” Eric says clumsily, making a mental note to delete this entire conversation from reality.

“Possibly,” Laurent shrugs, cheeks going that low pink again. “But I already rescued you. And frozen Twinkies aren’t really my thing, you know?”

“Stop calling me a twink,” Eric groans, slumping against the doorframe. “And why would you freeze a Twinkie?”

“You tell me, Bittle.”

“Oh my god, take your dog and go rescue people.” 

Eric realizes what he’s just said when Boots turns to face him and Eric can see a patch on the side of the harness that reads _Mystery, AK VFD_. Eric swallows, throat suddenly dry as another item is unceremoniously checked off his ‘perfect boyfriend’ list. 

“You’re a firefighter, too?” 

“Can’t be both?” Laurent laughs, cheeks still a touch flushed. “I’ll tell you all about it after I save some lives. Don’t let your wrist get too sore while I’m gone?”

“Wow. Screw you, sir.”

“I mean, hopefully, eventually.” Laurent grins, clicking again and guiding Boots down the stairs. “Food’s in the fridge, call Eileen if you’re scared, don’t die, eh?”

Eric sticks his tongue out and retreats to the bedroom. He’s back under the covers and asleep before he knows it.

* * *

Eric worked hard to maintain the few friendships he’d initially forged on the ice at Samwell, hoping that still having ties to such an embattled period in his life would keep his success in perspective. He has the money, now; he could go back, finish his degree. Instead, he calls Shitty B. Knight and reminisces about what could have been. “Watched your last interview, brah.” Eric can hear Shitty kiss his fingers. “You were fucking magnificent.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Eric mock bows, even though Shitty can’t see him. “Didn’t come across too pretentious, right?”

“You? A sweet southern belle? Pretentious?” Shitty exclaims before somberly adding, “Just a little bit but you’re still figuring out your new demo so it works for you. Now, enough about work, how’s your personal life. As your legal counsel I need incredibly invasive deets about your personal life.”

“First, you are not my lawyer yet because you aren’t yet a lawyer.” Eric fights the way his heart sinks just a smidge over the interview but it’s nothing he didn’t already know. “Second, I may have something to report on the personal front. I’m staying with this guy —” an over-exaggerated gasp has Eric pulling the phone away from his ear. “Hey, now. Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Of course I do. Is he handsome?”

“Very. If unkempt hockey lumberjack is your thing.”

“Eric. Bitty. Bits. Unkempt hockey lumberjack is who I am. I’m hard already. Keep going.”

“Context, he was supposed to be one of the guides taking me up this glacier. Enter, huge snowstorm, I'm stranded, he opens his home to me, he's hot, he's clearly into me, but nothing has happened and I assure you I have been bringing my A-game. Shitty, I need you to hear me, this morning I wake up, three am, and he’s gearing up his huge dog to go into the wilderness to rescue some stranded hunters, because he’s also a volunteer firefighter.”

Shitty whistles low and long through the receiver. “Sweet fuck, Bittle, I just came. How are you not dead?”

“I know,” Eric whines miserably. “And he won’t let me take his photo so I can’t even show you how hot he is. Tell Lardo to call me when she’s back in because I need to talk deets with someone who can appreciate the male physique.”

“I am offended. I am a patriot and I will get on my knees for any man brave enough to run into a burning building to rescue babies and puppies and shit. You can talk to me.” 

“He’s not American,” Eric corrects. “He’s French-Canadian, I think? He’s got that accent Shultzy had.”

“Plot thickens!” Shitty makes a thoughtful noise and offers, “Quebequois gay dude hiding out in the middle of nowhere Alaska being hot and heroic? Super questionable. Seriously, though, sounds like the problem is that he's into you."

“Yes, Shitty, thank you for grasping the obvious.”

“No, listen, I mean, you're leaving soon, right? As soon as you can?"

"Yes?”

"Then he's probably into you and doesn't want to do anything because you're leaving. Like with me and Lards, you know? Totally could have hooked up before Kenya but the thought of having that and then loosing her long distance? Ouch, Itty Bitty. Sounds like dude's crushin' and doesn't want things to get serious. That or he’s watched your channel and he’s paranoid you might dox him.”

Eric hadn’t wanted to give that option any weight but Shitty might be onto something. Laurent’s preoccupation with being off the grid is at serious odds with Eric’s tendency to pull out his phone at the barest hint of silence or tension. It wouldn’t be the first time Eric’s media presence had tanked a relationship.

“In my defense, that was an accident. I took down the video as soon as I knew what was happening.” Eric presses the heel of his hand against his eye. “Not that it’s much of a defense. I mean, wouldn't a hookup be the solution to all that? No attachment? Wham, bam, thank you ma’am? God, Shits, I'm so horny I'm gonna die."

"So rub one out! Not everyone's into hookup culture. You didn't used to be, why should this guy?”

"You know you were supposed to help me feel better, not shift the blame.” 

"Have you talked to him? Outright said, 'hey man, you're a gorgeous piece of moose meat and I want a bite. You interested in tapping this?' No? C'mon, Bittle this is textbook communication stuff. Fame hasn't changed you that much has it? You used to be all about honesty and getting your feelings out.”

"Just thought being out made everything easier." Eric says miserably. 

"Promise me you'll communicate," Shitty laughs. "And try to get me a photo!"

* * *

Stuck to the fridge, beneath a magnet from an insurance company and a sticky note covered in phone numbers, is a ratty postcard featuring a faded image of Mystery’s hockey team lined up against the New York Rangers. The edges are bent and fraying, a familiar publicity shot Eric’s seen before, but the words ‘Welcome to Mystery!’ are new. Eric carefully slides the paper out, turning it over to find a short note.

_‘Where you can skate on glaciers and shinny with polar bears. Tell your dad you need a vacation, kid! — M’_

Eric slides the card back into place and gets back to snooping, curiosity getting the better of him when he realizes he’s yet to dig through the freezer; a colossal oversight.

“Oh, Lord, no, what is this, what are you?” 

Eric pulls loose a bag of frozen, precooked chicken tenders only to find two more behind it. Bulk. Though Eric’s horror is tempered slightly by the vacuum sealed packages of seafood and a half bottle of potato vodka keeping the tenders company. 

“Shame on you, sir. Shame.”

Bad news: Laurent is a bro. Good news: Eric knows exactly how to make him happy and shoehorn another video into his queue.

* * *

“It finally stopped snowing,” Laurent calls as he tugs off his cap, door ajar slightly to make room for Boots, who is still wearing the bright safety harness. 

“Can’t wait to be rid of me?” Eric calls from his place on the couch, cozy beside the wood stove. He blinks up from his computer and finds Laurent standing before him still wearing most of his gear. “You look cold. Did you find your quarry?”

“What? Oh, yeah, they’re all fine, sort of, Russ is taking them up to Fairbanks for treatment. You see it stopped snowing?” Laurent repeats. “I want to show you something. It’s cold, but,” he holds out a fluffy knit scarf that Eric doesn’t recognize from the collection in the hall closet. “It’ll be worth it. I promise. Up.”

Eric looks at Laurent. 

Laurent stares back and shakes the scarf.

“You can bring your camera.”

“Great. Give me five.”

“So, fifteen. C’mon, Peaches. You’re gonna like this. Promise.”

Eric spins on his heel to flip Laurent off, walking backward to his room as Laurent claps a gloved hand over his heart and faux-staggers.

* * *

“Keep ‘em closed.”

“Getting worried about my personal safety, here,” Eric gripes, every step forward carefully balanced because he does not entirely trust the man supporting him. “I know I’ve been joking about you murdering me, but —“

“Stop.”

Eric freezes, throwing his arms wide to keep his balance.

“No, I mean you can look now.”

Eric cracks one eye open slowly, nose scrunched against the chill, and sees Laurent watching expectantly, before he lifts a finger and points subtlety up at the sky. 

“Holy hell,” Eric breathes, casting his gaze up to take in the aurora stretching from one end of the sky to the other, a river of purple and green light so bright that even in the dead of night, they’re casting shadows on the snow.

“Amazing, right?” Laurent asks, sliding in close beside him. “Neat what you can find when you stop staring at a screen.”

“Can’t believe you’re chirping me right now,” Eric breathes. “I should be filming this.”

“Should, maybe.”

Eric holds his hand out over the snow, finding the outline of a shadow. He waggles his fingers, then pinches his thumb and pointer finger to make the shape of a bunny. There’s a dry laugh from his left and a second, larger rabbit appears — Laurent’s contribution. 

“Needed a friend,” he defends half-heartedly, nudging Eric before the rabbit vanishes and Eric’s own disappears, as he finds his hand clasped solidly in Laurent’s. The contact is unexpected, obviously welcome but Eric can’t say he was certain how things might progress with Laurent, almost content with their banter. 

“Sorry,” Laurent takes a moment to lace their fingers. Eric spreads his hand wide to accommodate. “Lapin got hungry.”

“Sooorry,” Eric teases, tugging his hand back gently to see if his companion holds fast. He does, Eric’s glove slipping slightly as Laurent squeezes. “So, while I don’t need your life story, I would like to have at least one real conversation with you. Since you seem to already know who I am. Or at least who you think I am.”

Laurent’s awkward laugh puts butterflies in Eric’s chest. Or at least a few more of them.

“I’m a Canadian ex-pat living in rural Alaska, doing odd jobs to get by. I like hockey, I coach the youth teams. I have a dog who’s pretty great.”

“You’re a firefighter,” Eric adds.

“Volunteer,” Laurent corrects.

“Family?”

“None to speak of. Or, I guess, none to speak to. Living that estranged life.” 

“Acceptance stuff?”

“We’ll go with that. There was a lot of expectation about who I was supposed to be, how I was supposed to act.” Laurent turns his face up to the sky and Eric can see pale green reflecting in his eyes. “Then one day I woke up and thought . . . I’d rather be dead than live under the weight of that expectation another moment.” Laurent drops his chin and turns, lights still dancing in his eyes. “So, I left. Maybe not the bravest decision, or the smartest, but it led me here; and for once, everything is bigger than I am. It’s peaceful.”

Eric thinks he understands — he can empathize with the overwhelming need to succeed, and he sure as hell knows how much it hurts to fail, but this is different in a way that’s difficult to parse.

“You like feeling small?”

“When you have to be big all the time, small can be pretty great, too.” Laurent’s smile is closer to a grimace, a careful slip of a thing that makes Eric feel like he’s about to be scolded. “But you’re on the opposite trajectory, aren’t you? More followers, more subscribers, more fans, so you can get more ads and more money and more responsibilities. You don’t want to be small.” Laurent throws his arms wide to the sky and shouts, “You want to be huge!”

“I’ve been small my entire life,” Eric defends when the echo of Laurent’s voice subsides, because standing under a vast, glittering sky, hundreds of miles from anywhere, Eric feels like he’s been struck. How long has he spent running from what happened to him? What his parents said and what his family tried to ignore. Being ‘small’ cost him his education. Being ‘small’ kept him from finding love. He’s sick to death of being small — he must not be able to hide his emotions well enough because Laurent shakes his head and moves to pull Eric toward him.

“Small and weak aren’t the same thing. If you draw strength from attention, that’s fine. All I’m saying is, I don’t. Not anymore. Maybe I never did.”

Something in the distance is howling and Eric doesn’t know enough about Arctic ecology to guess at what it could be. Instead, he lets Laurent pull him into a loose hug. A part of him knows he may never have an experience like this again. He needs to cherish it, live in the moment, but it’s so damn hard to stop thinking.

“This is all I have,” Eric admits, knocking his forehead against Laurent’s chest before casting his gaze back up to the river of light cutting through the arctic sky. “I ran away from my fears once and gave up something I loved, for what? A few years of no-contact hockey that left me so ill-equipped for college I actually lost my scholarship? My channel, my brand, I built this life from nothing. It’s mine. It’s the only thing that’s mine.”

“You don’t have to sell yourself to be successful.”

Laurent’s tone isn’t judgmental, far from it, but the sympathy catches Eric off guard. 

“Is that what happened?” Eric asks. “You sold yourself?”

Laurent looks up at the sky, prompting Eric to do the same, and reminding him he’s in the middle of a Hallmark worthy heart-to-heart with a man he might be capable of falling in love with.

“The only control I had over my life was the decision to walk away from it,” Laurent says carefully, looking down at Eric with a fondness he probably doesn’t deserve. “Besides. If I’d made different choices we wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Yeah, I’d probably be dead, too,” Eric whispers, unable to look away. “Frozen in the wilderness like those dumb hunters. Selfie stick poking out of the snow. You’d dig me out and say, what a shame, he was too cute to freeze to death.” 

“Probably,” Laurent smiles, reaching up to rest his gloved fingers against Eric’s cheek. “You good?” He asks, the barest hint of concern marring his horribly symmetrical features. “This okay?”

Eric nods, the English language failing him for the first time in possibly his entire life.

They’ll never be able to figure out who initiated what — Eric rises onto his toes in the same instance Laurent leans down — and their cold noses bump before their lips meet; Laurent’s chapped and rough against Eric’s. A first kiss under the aurora.

While it only lasts a few seconds, Laurent pulls away so slowly their lips don’t quite part, part longing, mostly the subzero temperature.

“Hi,” Eric laughs, his heart in his throat, breath puffing into Laurent’s face, obscuring the expression of relief on the guide’s face. “Bet you thought you’d scared me off, huh?”

“So remember those hunters?” Laurent asks. “Because I have good news and bad news. Good news, we found them.”

“Oh, Lord, are they alright?”

“They’re fine, the bad news is more for you. Russell had to medevac them to Fairbanks, and now he's headed to Juneau. So, unless we charter you a plane, you’re here for at least another week. Maybe two.”

There’s too much afterglow for Eric’s stomach to drop properly because all he can think about is being stuck in this town, with this man, for long enough to matter, and he’s immediately invested in the idea.

“I have to call my producer,” Eric holds eye contact with his new ‘friend’. “Reschedule some flights.”

“Tell her now that the weather’s cleared I can show you the town, get the footage you were after. I’m sure there’s plenty of content beyond that clip of you screaming in a snowstorm.”

“I figured you’d stop chirping me if we made out.”

Laurent grins and drops his chin, the most adorably irritating ‘aw shucks’ gesture Eric’s ever seen. “ _Mon dieu_ , Eric, no, it’s only going to get worse. I’m going to make you regret this.”

“Make you regret it,” Eric counters falling forward into Laurent’s arms. They stand there, under the most beautiful sight Eric’s ever seen, awkwardly holding each other, staring at the snow, each other, the lights, when finally Laurent clears his throat.

“Want to go back to my place? I picked up some, uh, stuff. If you want.”

“Oh, hell yes. Please, let’s.”

“Rad. Hey, you know I can help you with that stuff, right?” Laurent starts back toward the car, tugging Eric’s hand. “Your contact issues?”

“I don’t play hockey anymore, so it doesn’t matter,” Eric protests, wondering how long Laurent’s been juggling hockey and sex in the same reasoning space, before the man stops abruptly and Eric bumps into his back. “Hey! Little warning?”

“Maybe that wasn’t the contact issue I was talking about," Laurent smiles over his shoulder, before immediately adding, "but I can help with that, too. You’ve got nothing to be scared of on the ice out here. ‘Cept maybe bears."

“Talking about yourself again?”

“No, actual bears. Nice try. Would like to skate with you, though.”

“Part of your mating ritual?”

Laurent shrugs, opening the car door for Eric. “What can I say, I’m consistent.”

* * *

On day five, Eric wakes up in a bed that isn’t his own.

“Hey, handsome.” Eric whispers, resting his chin on Laurent’s chest to look up at his disheveled partner. Laurent groans and settles a hand on the back of Eric’s head, guiding him down to rest fully on top of him.  “No regrets?” Eric whispers, pressing a kiss against Laurent’s pec, skin twitching and muscle jumping at the contact.

“No regrets,” Laurent yawns, scratching his fingers over Eric’s scalp. “Go to sleep, _Lapin_.”

* * *

Eric moves into Laurent’s room with little fanfare. Or, it should be said that Laurent takes the bedding off Eric’s bed ‘to wash’ and just never puts it back, forcing a discussion that leads immediately to Eric being ravished within an inch of his life.

“Smooth,” Eric sighs, sprawled across Laurent’s chest as they both cool down. “Bet you try that move on all the handsome travelers that stop through.”

“So far that’s just been you,” Laurent says softly, running his fingers over Eric’s cowlick. “Handsome traveler, that is.”

It’s awkward at first, neither quite acclimated to the intimacy of a shared bed, but they find a rhythm somewhere in the mess of tangled limbs and slightly uncomfortable sleeping positions. Instead of frantic phone calls and incessant texts, Eric wakes to soft kisses and cold toes. To fresh coffee and crisp air. 

It’s nice. Domestic. But like everything in Eric’s nomadic life, it can’t last.

* * *

Eric is editing a new video in the living room when Laurent slips in the back door with a pair of clean skates slung over his shoulder. “I have something for you,” Laurent sets the skates down and Eric notices immediately that they are too small to be for anyone but him.

“How’d you get my shoe size?” Eric blurts, caught between flattery and disbelief. Then he realizes he doesn’t actually know if the skates are for him.

“Euh,” Laurent freezes like he’s only just realizing the boundary problem. “Your boots — by the door? Shit, I should have asked first, that’s creepy isn’t it? I picked up some skates from the shop, so you can skate. With me. Us. Fuck. Um."

Eric leans over the edge of the couch to snag the laces, lifting them from the wood.

"Careful, I just sharpened them," Laurent warns when Eric pulls off a guard, protective like Eric’s some kid who's never skated before. Which he might actually think. Eric holds the blade up to the light, catches the edge. They’ll need to be broken in, Eric can already feel the hot spots; regardless, they’re gorgeous skates that have Eric longing to get out on the ice. 

"We're swapping out the old pairs and I snagged a new one for you to use while you're here. They're going to be rentals."

"I keep thinking we did this backwards," Eric admits, flattered, sliding the blade guard back on before starting to loosen the laces. "You're wooing me like I didn't just fall into bed with you. Makes a boy feel special."

"You are special." Laurent comes around the coffee table and takes the other skate to work on the laces himself. “If that's not the answer you hoped for: You aren't special and I do this for all of my guests."

“You sleep with all your guests?”

“Of course.”

The lack of humor in Laurent's voice masks any concern Eric might have actually had about the situation. He's excited. Eric's not-boyfriend wants to skate with him so badly he stole/purchased/borrowed new skates from his work.

"You're not cute," Eric chides, tugging loose a lace long enough he can slap it against Laurent's covered thigh. “And how many jobs do you have?”

“Enough.” Laurent smiles slyly. "You're the cute one. I'm just a scruffy." 

“Yes, you are,” Eric reaches over to tug Laurent in for a kiss, chasing his tongue and the bitter taste of his morning coffee. “My big handsome mountain man,” he praises against his partner’s lips, preening at the smile he can feel shaping Laurent’s face.

The man has a serious praise kink, and if there’s one thing Eric’s good at, it’s giving compliments.

* * *

Eric slides out of bed against Laurent’s protests (and grabby hands), to peek out the window, where he finds a mess of headlights in the distance. 

“What is all that noise? Some kind of party?”

“Storm’s passed. Everyone’s probably clearing the ice for tomorrow’s game.”

“At midnight?” Eric cracks the window a touch to listen to the distant hum of snowblowers and raucous laughter. “I think I love this town. Everyone acts like my college teammates — you know they used to call me Bitty? Does everyone here have a nickname, too? What are you called?”

“They call me Laurent, which is my name,” Laurent says petulantly, scooting up to sit against the headboard with only a flannel sheet protecting his impressive modesty. “Okay, Bitty, if you’re not planning to get back in bed with me, I don’t have an excuse to not be down there helping the guys.”

“So, let’s go!” Eric hops back to the bed, crawling on top of his partner. “Introduce me to your friends. Let me get some footage. If I’m going to be here for another two weeks I want to experience as much as I can.”

Laurent reaches up and holds Eric’s face steady between his palms. “I was going to blow you,” he whispers. “And you want to go outside to shovel the pond?”

The look of disbelief on Laurent’s face is enough to make Bitty rethink his request. “We can stay here. I’m not one to turn down sex but this is just . . . Are you disappointed?” 

“Disappointed? No. I’m more turned on than I was five minutes ago.” Laurent shoves Eric off the bed with an ‘oof’. “Get dressed and bring your skates.”

* * *

“It’s cold.”

“Yup.”

“It’s really cold.”

Laurent tugs Eric close to loop the loose end of his scarf around his face. A gesture that starts as thoughtful and ends with the man wrapping the thing around his mouth to muffle him. Eric spits out the end and picks a thread off his tongue. 

“Rude.”

“Told you you’d regret this. Are you actually cold or just being annoying?”

“I spent years in ice rinks wearing unitards and leg warmers, I can handle this,” Eric defends, gesturing around the deserted street. “Honestly, I just like getting your attention.”

“You have my attention, Bittle,” Laurent placates, unwrapping Eric’s scarf to adjust it properly. “Very little about you does not capture my attention.”

“Romantic and mildly insulting?”

Laurent leans forward, and Eric is familiar enough with the man’s body language to meet him for a kiss halfway. “We can go back to chirping,” Laurent breathes against Eric’s cold lips. “We can make hate-sex a thing.”

“Maybe it already is?” Eric says cheekily. 

“Oh,” Laurent smiles slyly, hands slipping from Eric’s scarf down the front of his coat. “That’s how it is, then?”

“We are in public,” Eric reminds. “And someone wanted to see me shovel snow.”

“No, I wanted to do something much more appropriate. You wanted to shovel snow.”

An engine backfires down the street, startling them both out of whatever bizarre flirting ritual Eric has found himself in. He didn’t think things would get even more difficult to manage after hooking up, but here he is, half hard under his snow pants, about to participate in manual labor he requested to participate in.

“That was the lord baby Jesus telling us to keep our hands to ourselves.” Eric stomps toward the lights, frustrated, Laurent laughing behind him.

As they walk, the voices get louder, the lights brighter, and eventually they round the street corner and Eric is greeted with the sight of a large outdoor rink that’s far more than the pond he expected.

“Boys!” Laurent yells. “So eager to freeze your _gosses_ off, eh?”

Eric hangs back a step, making sure the GoPro clipped to his jacket is on and can get a good shot of the generator-powered spotlights illuminating the partially exposed ice. Already, piles of fresh snow are pushed to the edges of the rink like makeshift boards as a dozen or so people in thick coats and hockey skates run shovels from end to end, leaving the heavier stuff for the snowblowers. It’s enough to make Eric long for a childhood where winter was an actual season; he says as much for the video.

The men rally around Laurent like the haven’t seen him in weeks, and while they’re too far away for Eric to catch the conversation, it looks like he’s being congratulated for the reserve rescue; while Eric had nothing to do with it, he feels the smallest touch of pride knowing he’s sleeping with a town hero. A hero who doesn’t want his face visible, and who Eric has no idea how he’s going to edit around.

“Bittle!” Laurent waves him down. “Come meet the boys!”

“Gentlemen,” Eric waves, earning several excited hellos before Laurent launches into introductions Eric is absolutely not ready to remember — just a sea of smiling faces bundled up in scarves, hats, and coats.

“Sawyer! I’ve heard about, uh,“ Eric notices Laurent’s warning look over the kid’s shoulder. “Laurent’s told me about you! He’s told me great things about y’all, I hope you don’t mind if I get some footage of the team?”

“Fuck yeah,” a tall d-man Laurent had called ‘PB’ is the first to say yes. “I wanna be famous.”

“He’s only got like a million subscribers, you’re not gonna be famous,” someone mutters.

“Million more than you,” Eric smiles, relishing the laughter that follows. “I already promised Laurent I’d make y’all look good, so don’t worry yourselves about that.”

The group is a fascinating mix of young bloods and veterans; some kids can’t be older than fifteen, a few of the guys in their forties, but it’s mostly the kids who lined up to introduce themselves when they saw Eric accompanying Laurent. When the proper greetings have been tossed around, after Eric’s been thoroughly confused as to who plays what position and does what job in the community, Laurent shoves him lightly and points to a truck near the scoreboard, the bed overflowing with shovels and brooms. “Ready to work? Just remember what I wanted to do tonight.”

“This all seems very ritualistic,” Eric comments, hefting a shovel from the back of someone’s truck. 

“Hockey’s a religion. Honestly, it’s why I moved here. The Saturday game isn’t broken down by age,” Laurent brings the edge of his shovel down on a hunk of ice. “I mean, there aren’t mites rolling around against guys like PB, clearly, but you play based on ability. Everyone can play hockey, but not everyone can play in the Saturday game.”

“And who picks the teams?” 

“Town Fathers,” Laurent grunts, lifting a shovelful of wet snow onto the embankment. “Mayor, Sheriff, Judge, people respected in the community.” 

“Seems sexist. Also oddly authoritarian.”

“Town Fathers is traditional, but it’s more like a city council set up, now. After the Rangers were here everything changed a bit. Eileen’s on there. She owns the diner.”

“Still have not met this woman,” Eric pants, keeping pace with Laurent as they shovel. “Do you play in the fabled Saturday game? Are you one of the ‘chosen’?”

“Haven’t missed a game in five years,” Laurent slides to a stop, casting a cheeky smile Eric’s direction that falters when he adds, “well there was that year I was stuck on a search and rescue for three weeks. Almost five years.”

“We can round up,” Eric offers. “So, this is like, your thing. Hockey.”

“Ha, no. It’s everyone’s thing, I’m just lucky enough to participate.”

“That feels like a soundbite.”

“It is, he’s the best! And so modest! Total catch!” PB skates by, smacking Laurent on the ass as he passes. “Can you believe he’s single?” 

Laurent hurls curses at the larger man as the rest of the group chimes in, singing praises and very obviously trying to get their friend laid. 

“This is impressive.”

“It’s annoying,” Laurent grouses. 

“Well good thing I already fucked you, eh bud?” Eric chirps. “Sounds like my host is a hell of a guy! Tell you what, because you’ve been so thoughtful in trying to set us up, tomorrow the winning team gets a round of my famous pie. And whoever scores the most goals gets to pick the flavor. How’s that sound?”

The roar of enthusiasm twists something old and forgotten in Eric’s chest — reminding him of how excited the boys at Samwell would get when Eric found time to bake. When he hadn’t been on bedrest, at least. He’d lived for those moments, when he felt like part of the team and not a weak link to be benched every game. 

If Eric’s smile falters, he doesn’t feel it, but there’s a look of concern on Laurent’s face that says he may not have hidden his melancholy as well as he’d hoped.

“You alright? You don’t have to make anything, they’re just joshin’ about snacks.”

“No, no, I’m happy to do it,” Eric blinks up at the sky, trying not to get tears on his eyelashes because they’ll freeze and then he’ll really look foolish. “I’d love to do it. Just makes me miss my idiot friends, you know?”

“Yeah.” Laurent shuffles awkwardly. “I get it. Everyone loves rude, hungry hockey players, right?”

“God, the stories I could tell you,” Eric laughs, trying to find any hint of the aurora from the night before. “The stories you could tell me.”

“I’d like to hear them,” Laurent offers. “Your channel is one thing but you’re not . . . you aren’t like . . .I can’t imagine that person playing hockey. I can imagine you, though.”

It isn’t the first time Eric’s stopped to look at what his life has become, may not even be the fiftieth. Almost any time he ends up in a new town for longer than a few days, when he accepts a drink from a stranger, or calls his mama with a sore throat because he’s lonely and he needs a good cry, he’ll stop and wonder how he ended up doing anything at all with his life.

“I’m not like me.” Eric gives up and wiping his eyes with his mittens. “I got you, Sugar. My brand is one thing. I’m another, you disappointed yet?”

“Think I like you better like this.” Laurent says, so earnestly it’s all the more hilarious when he apologizes.

“Nah. Sounds about right to me. C’mon. Let’s shovel some snow to uncover more snow.”

“You know I’m playing tomorrow?” Laurent nudges Eric. “I could win that pie.”

“I’ll bake you your own pie if you keep being sweet to me.”

“Always be sweet to you,” Laurent mumbles, more to himself than Eric, and Eric resists the urge to chirp, instead leaning into the man’s side for a quick hug. Someone from the pond notices and hollers ‘Fine!’.

“Y’all were just trying to get your boy laid, now sass me like that again I won’t bake for any of you!”

* * *

“You used to play.”

It isn’t a question, because everyone knows Eric used to play. It’s a huge part of the reason Eric’s as well known as he is today — he went viral for a few well edited posts before he lost his scholarship. The irony being he was so well known when he dropped out of college that Samwell actually received criticism for how they handled the whole situation. Honestly, that was a big reason he didn’t go back, even when a few sponsors offered to pay the way; he’d burned too many bridges. Even if he hadn’t been the one to set them alight, they were still gone. 

“I used to do a lot of things, just like you.”

“You were good enough to get a scholarship.” Laurent bites his lip, clearly thinking of what he wants to say next. “But you couldn’t handle contact?”

“I’m well aware how stupid it is. There’s been much talking in many therapy sessions and I’m happy to report I had a mental block around physicality likely left over from a childhood trauma.”

“Must have been some trauma.”

“Well, several traumas. But only two worth noting. I’m mostly over it, now,” Eric lies, not wanting to seem weak in front of a man who seems to be everything he isn’t. “Can skate just fine, thank you.”

“So you don’t have contact issues anymore,” Laurent presses. “You don’t need help with that. You’re good.”

“Absolutely. A-okay. Just haven’t skated in a while.”

“Great. How you feel about showing my boys some NCAA drills? They’re all excited you’re famous or whatever but most of them have no idea what to expect if they step up. Maybe you can show them a thing or two.” 

He should have realized this would be the path of the conversation. Too many dropped hints and Eric’s bluff has been called, but Laurent doesn’t seem to be joking, his big blue eyes are earnest, even a little excited. 

“I mean, yeah? I could do that.”

“That’d be awesome. I’d love to get you out there. Show the kids a thing or two. You and I have the most experience I think.”

Eric is about to ask what experience Laurent has when the man turns away to take another call, a stern persona clicking into place as he greets what must be another scout.

_‘Hot murderer wants me to run drills with the local team,’_ Eric texts to Shitty _._ The response comes slowly —enough to drive home the time difference — and as Eric types out an apology, one word pops up:

_‘Kinky.’_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Sneak Peek of Part III: 
> 
> Laurent cracks open the cigar box and tilts the contents onto the couch between them, revealing a worn puck, a strand of pink pearls, a few enamel pins, and a plastic bag of photos. Then, as if waiting to make a grand entrance, a large gold ring bounces off the cushion, threatening to roll onto the floor. 
> 
> The ring disappears between Laurent's fingers, quick as a flash, but Eric doesn’t miss the wink of the stones or the familiar logo on the side of the band. 
> 
> Little boys who grow up with coaches for fathers know what real championship rings look like.


	3. Interlude - The Disappearance Of Jack Zimmermann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unpredictable behavior wouldn’t do Jack any favors after the Draft, he needed to be stable, respectable, level-headed; but as the kilometer markers flew by, Jack wanted to see how far he could go before someone stopped him. Suddenly nothing was more important than finding the answer to that question. 
> 
> How far could he go before anyone knew he was missing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus little palate cleanser <3

Stubbornness stopped playing a role in Jack’s escape plan about 300km ago.

That morning, he’d woken up with bile burning the back of his throat from his nightmares and the binge drinking the night before, only to become even more nauseous when he’d remembered what the day was meant to entail. Endless interviews from the press corps’ of multiple teams looking for Jack to repeat the same statement he’d hammered out with his father weeks earlier.

Yes, he’s excited for the Draft. It’s an honor to be among such amazing players. He’s a skilled center and an asset to any team that will have him. He’s grateful. He’s humbled.

_(He’s not terrified. Not at all. Why would anyone even ask such a thing.)_

Jack’s going over an offer for the third time when he’s overcome with an awareness of the fact that he could just _leave_. Right now. Drive away, anywhere he wants, as fast or as slow as he likes. He has money, credit cards, a car; he could go anywhere, if only for a little while.

He absently mapped a route on his phone, looking for familiar landmarks; before he knew it, he was west bound, completely ignoring his vibrating phone, eventually just turning it off completely and enjoying the road noise and the way radio stations would fade in and out as he skirted cities.

In the back of his mind, Jack had thought he’d hit Ottawa and turn back. Despite the duffel bag of clothes in the back seat, he didn’t intend to actually _leave —_ it was just an idea. A fantasy. An intrusive thought like any other, like holding too many pills in the palm of his hand or contemplating what might happen if he ran a coming red light.

Problem was, Jack hit the city limits and he didn’t _feel_ done.

So, he grabbed lunch and kept going.

Jack knew he was tickling dangerous territory, some lucid part of his mind was screaming that he needed to turn around. Unpredictable behavior wouldn’t do Jack any favors after the Draft, he needed to be stable, respectable, level-headed; but as the kilometer markers flew by, Jack wanted to see how far he could go before someone stopped him. Suddenly nothing was more important than finding the answer to that question.

How far could he go before anyone knew he was missing?

He packed a bag. He’d taken his passport, his truck’s title, money out of the safe — more than money, he’d borrowed things he shouldn’t have even touched. _(Definitely shouldn’t steal.)_ One item in particular damning as a heart under the floorboards and even if they were so mad they wouldn’t come looking for Jack, they’d have to come for the ring.

His therapist would probably say he's dissociating. Not that he can bring himself to care at all — everything feels so calm, every decision (almost) rational, except Jack knows he's completely fucked. He told himself he’d turn around. The next exit. The next town. He’d even signaled to merge lanes, fully intent on going home. Problem was, he never turned the wheel to follow through. Never eased off the gas, simply kept going forward. Every mile marker. Every offramp. A voice in the back of his mind begging him to stop.

And he just . . . doesn't.

He hit Sudbury after midnight, grabbed tacos from a late-night drive through, and checked into a hotel near the highway; enjoying the silence of a single room for once, staving off an anxiety attack with a pill or two, forcing himself to enjoy his last night of freedom. He plugs his phone in to charge and settles into bed, not bothering to pull off his clothes; only toeing off his shoes to kick them across the room, wincing at the loud thud as they hit the opposite wall.

He turned his phone back on and was hit with a flurry of messages, some from his family, some from his agent, most from Kent.

_Papa (17:30) Jack, where are you, kid? Wayne wants to take you to that steak place you like to celebrate._

_Kenny (18:23)_ : _Where are you? We were supposed to hang with Bergey — he says he talked to a scout in Buffalo who the fuck would want BERGEY???_

_Papa (18:45): Talked to Kent. Don’t worry about calling back. Enjoy yourself before your big day! We’ll do dinner tomorrow._

_Kenny (18:46): HAUL ASS THE BEER IS ALMOST GONE_

_Maman (19:06): Let me know if you’ll be in late so I don’t turn on the alarm. Have fun :)_

_Kenny (20:38): I’m leaving — you want to grab food?_

_Kenny (20:41): ??????_

_Kenny (21:13): whats with the silent treatment_

_Kenny (21:56): Ok, I get it. If this is about what we said the other night, we just needed to sort this out before we’re both pros, you know?_

_Kenny (21:57): Zimmermann_

_Kenny (23:13): Once everything settles down we’ll be ok. Just have to make it through the next week with no surprises. LOL_

_Kenny (00:03): You’re still my best friend._

_Maman (00:16): Heading to bed, sweetie. Left the alarm off <3 _

_Papa (00:18): Have fun_ 😉

Jack can’t find the energy to respond to his parents, but Kenny is less of a drain. He’s spent so long trying to keep Jack’s head above water, he doesn’t need to worry about Jack’s misadventures. Jack rests his head against the pillow and closes his eyes, staring at the blackness behind his eyelids until he can’t stand it anymore; rolling over to type another message for Kenny, not bothering to wait for a reply before powering off his phone completely.

He’ll head back in the morning.

He has to.

* * *

_Jack (01:49): haha i’m good just burnt out see you tomorrow_


	4. Part III - Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurent’s laser focus is on the game until he looks up to see Eric squished between his neighbors and a broad smile replaces his determined frown. He offers a little wave, the whole interaction taking about two seconds before someone in a brown jersey steals the puck, breaking the intimate interlude. Eric hides his blush behind his cup; he can’t remember the last time a look like that was directed at ‘him’. 
> 
> Well, that’s not quite true; more like he can’t remember when he was looking just as intently back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't lie, work got nuts and then getting laid off from work due to the 'Rona made things worse. I know it's been ages, but I'm back with nearly 9,000 words to make up for it. I hope this chapter can distract you all from the craziness for a little bit <3
> 
> Thank you to RabbitRunnah and UncleNansi for beta work on this chapter (and the whole fic really)!

* * *

Excerpt from **‘SNOW IS TRYIN’ TO KILL ME, Y’ALL - !!!ERB HIATUS ANNOUNCEMENT!!!’,** posted to YouTube, February 6th, 2019.

_“— seems I’ll be staying up here just a bit longer to take care of some personal business, but the good news is I have some company to keep me company! Spoiler alert: It’s the Canadian hottie I’ve been blushing about; don’t judge me, a man can only do so much in this world when confronted by a thick-thighed beefcake. Who knows, maybe I’ll even manage to get him on camera next update so stop commenting ‘pics or it didn’t happen’, he’s real! This is his kitchen! Anyway, you know the drill; like, comment, subscribe, and I’ll see y’all real soon.”_

* * *

The Saturday Game offers an easy opportunity for a video, maybe two. Lord knows Eric could use some buffer material for when he’s up to full speed again. Wonderful reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with the way Laurent ducked his head and hid an awkward smile the night before, asking if Eric would come watch him play.

When Eric finally gets out the door, all bundled up against a balmy 10 degrees, he finds the streets deserted. The snow-covered mountains and frosty rustic buildings have Eric itching to take out his phone (so he does). Picturesque, soft, Eric snaps a few photos, a few seconds of video, then stands in the middle of the empty mainstreet, just because he can. Eric can safely say he loves this town more than any other he’s visited. Sure, he’d love it if the temperature was a little higher, but he’s in love.

“New life goal,” he tells the camera, angling to capture the perfect backdrop for a thumbnail. “Buy a cabin in Alaska and become a recluse. Cook, skate, and sleep all day. My new man is a smart man.”

* * *

The entire town is out, the stands packed so tight Eric can’t find a seat until a tiny Native woman moves her bag with a conspicuous cough and motions for Eric to sit. A man with a round face and a receding hairline leans forward only seconds after Eric settles in and asks, “So you’re Laurent’s new houseguest? The vlogger?”

“News travels fast in a small town,” Eric jokes as someone else hands him a styrofoam cup of what appears to be hot chocolate. A quick sniff reveals there’s definitely peppermint schnapps thrown in for good measure.

“Small towns, news, bad gas,” the woman chides, nudging Eric with her shoulder. “I’m Eileen.”

“The famous Eileen! I’ve heard so much about you!” Eric offers his mittened hand and she grips it firmly to give one solid shake. “I better not be the ‘bad gas’ in that sentence, mind you.”

“Course not. So, you’re shacking up with Laurent? He’s a nice boy, good skater; watch close, you’ll see he has real soft hands,” she turns her attention back to the game while Eric contemplates the barely veiled attempt at a set-up. “ _Real_ soft hands.”

“Right. Gotta love a man with soft hands,” Eric echoes as Eileen toasts him with her thermos, directing his attention back to the ice.

Laurent’s laser focus is on the game until he looks up to see Eric squished between his neighbors and a broad smile replaces his determined frown. He offers a little wave and the whole interaction takes all of two seconds before someone in a brown jersey steals the puck and breaks the intimate interlude. Eric hides his blush behind his cup; he can’t remember the last time a look like that was directed at ‘him’. Well, that’s not quite true; more like he can’t remember when he was looking just as intently back.

“Lord knows he deserves to get laid more than anyone else in the damn state,” Eileen chides, interrupting Eric’s inner monologue mid-sip. “It’d be lovely if a nice boy like yourself could take care of that — ” Eric burns the roof of his mouth and chokes in the same half-second“— Oh, you’re not straight are you?”

Eric coughs roughly and shakes his head, motioning for someone to refill his cup. They’re only in the first period and Eric’s going to need a little help getting through the next forty minutes with a boundary-less octogenarian. 

When the awkwardness has settled it turns out Laurent is as good a hockey player as he’d said. Better, even. At least as skilled as anyone Eric played with at Samwell, zipping across the ice, directing plays, stealing the puck every chance he gets — it’s a testament to the goalie’s skill that Laurent’s team doesn’t score _more_.

“He’s showing off like a damn peacock,” Eileen sighs late in the second period after Laurent scores his third goal of the game. “That’s a Mystery Mating Dance right there.”

A kind hand shoves Eric’s shoulder from behind.

“You’re my good luck charm, kid, had a double payout for a hattie!”

“Y’all are very welcome.” Eric agrees softly, fighting the urge to cheer like the secret boyfriend he absolutely isn’t as Laurent slides into a huddle with his raucous teammates, even in celebration looking to the stands for Eric.

* * *

“Hey! Bittle!” Laurent shoulders his gear bag and hustles to match Eric’s stride, leaping over a small snowbank Eric probably helped shovel a few nights earlier. “So? What’d you think?”

Eric has about a half second to dig up his deepest, heart-of-Georgia drawl.

“Oh, sugar, I’d say y’all were mighty impressive. You’ve got a heck of a cannon on you. Half expected a snapped stick, showing off like that.”

Laurent’s nose twitches adorably when Eric drops the ‘ _y’all,_ ’ and Eric can’t help but reach out and nudges Laurent’s shoulder with his mittened-hand to distract himself. Even with all the clandestine encounters they’ve been racking up, Eric’s never seen Laurent quite so flustered, high on a win, on praise, on Eric’s sheer presence . . . it’s like a whole different side of the man Eric didn’t know he’d been waiting to see.

“Um, yes. Thanks. Glad we could live up to the hype.” Laurent’s voice hitches just a touch.

“Oh, honey, you lived up to the hype. Wasn’t looking at the other boys much at all. Speaking of, I met Eileen.”

“Oh, yeah? She’s cool. Hope she didn’t say anything too terrible about me.”

“Just that you have soft hands and need to get laid. Asked if I’d take care of that for her.”

Laurent’s gait falters and he stumbles, dropping his bag, throwing out an arm to steady himself that smacks Eric hard in the chest, nearly sending them both tumbling.

“Whoa, look out!” Eric laughs, steadying himself on Laurent’s arm. “Tryin’ to take a tumble on me?”

“Fuck, I’m sorry —”

“Oh, don’t break a sweat.” Eric grabs the strap on Laurent’s abandoned bag to hoist it over his shoulder. “She was just having some fun.”

“No, I mean about the — ” Laurent is red faced, embarrassed, breathing hard, and looks like he’s about to throw up.

“The ‘getting laid’ thing? Or the hitting me thing?”

Eric’s only joking, but he looks up and finds Laurent is squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain. Boots, who Eric hadn’t even realized was around, is beside Laurent in a hot second, butting her nose against his hand and whining.

“Are you okay?”

“I get like this.” Laurent waves off his concern, scratching Boots' ears idly. “It’ll pass. Secondhand embarrassment.”

“Okay, um, gosh, should I touch you? Can I hug you?”

“Fuck — would you?” Laurent breathes, eyes glassy. “That’d be nice.”

“Of course! You know I’m a damn good hugger.” Eric dumps the bag and wraps himself around Laurent in a loose bear hug, tucking his arms underneath his partner’s and trying not to panic himself as he listens to Laurent’s labored breaths. This isn’t secondhand embarrassment, it’s something just shy of an anxiety attack if he remembers correctly.

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” Eric soothes, running his hands over Laurent’s back. “Just a little spooked. No harm done. See? All my bits and bobs are still attached and your nosy neighbors didn’t scare me off.”

“Yeah,” Laurent huffs, leaning in enough Eric can feel the man shaking. "I'm good. It's okay. I like hugs."

"Me too, hon. You wanna’ hold my hand?” Eric asks gently, biting the flap of one mitten to display his wiggling bare fingers. "Rumor has it I'm pretty comforting, probably because I'm so handsome and charming. Also, I’m very holdable.”

Laurent’s still shaking a bit, but Eric does manage to get a laugh out of him. Eric gets his hand around Laurent’s.

“And I have soft hands,” Eric adds slyly.

“What?”

“I told Eileen I had soft hands, too. Didn’t know if you’d like that or not,” Eric tucks himself close for another hug, squeezing tight, second guessing the thread of the conversation. “Because Eileen said you like soft hands?”

“I…like soft hands,” Laurent admits, letting Eric off the hook. “And soft people.”

They stand together, sharing body heat for a few moments, at least until a round of wolf-whistles from the other end of the parking lot has Laurent rallying and hurling curses at his teammates.

“I ruined it,” Laurent apologizes, nudging Eric to the truck. “We were having a moment, right? That was romantic? _Tabarnak._ ”

“You can have more than one kind of moment,” Eric assuages, waving at the departing boys blowing kisses and miming mildly homophobic sex acts. “Tell you what, I’m a little tipsy from whatever your fans kept pouring me, you’ve gotta be tired from carrying that whole team on your back for three periods, let’s go to the house and warm up. Have our own celebration, seeing as I now owe you a pie.”

“Can I pick the flavor?” Laurent asks slyly, opening the passenger door for Eric, though Boots jumps in first and refuses to budge. “You can get in on my side,” he apologizes, gently nudging Eric around the front.

“Can I ride the hump?” Eric asks slyly, but Laurent doesn’t respond, abandoning him to throw his gear into the trunk. Naturally, Eric repeats himself when they climb into the cab.

“I heard you the first time.” Laurent tugs off his gloves and flashes a unsteady smile. “Just didn’t want to reward a bad joke.”

In a flash, Eric’s pulled into a wind-chapped kiss that sends him reeling with thoughts of Hallmark winter romances and leaving everything he’s even known behind for the sake of one handsome, rugged beau.

“Sweetheart?” Eric asks gently, chasing another kiss as Boots starts nudging into Eric’s space looking for attention.

“Mmm?”

“Would _you_ like to ride the hump?”

* * *

* * *

Eric finds Laurent in the living room with a bag of chips and two beers, one opened, the other resting sealed and generous on Eric's side of the coffee table. Eric glances at the TV. Sure enough there’s a familiar sight of little red and blue hockey players zipping across the ice, warming up.

“Game's on,” Laurent greets.

"There's always a game on,” Eric acknowledges. "For the record, this is the bro-iest thing I've caught you doing."

Eric takes the drink and drops down beside his partner to get comfy, snuggling against Laurent’s side but positioning himself so he can rest his computer on his lap to multi-task; there are more than a few videos needing editing and he’s already backlogged to the tune of ten-thousand lost subscribers.

"Yeah, but this is Hockey Night,” Laurent pulls out a single All-Dressed chip and holds it in front of Eric's mouth for the latter to bite. “Habs vs. Leafs. It's going to be great."

“Aren’t both of those teams doing terribly right now?”

Laurent says ‘Habs’ with a fondness (and an intonation) that reminds Eric his beau is a French-Canadian ex-pat as the intro graphics slide over to two male commentators and Laurent ignores Eric’s dig to stuff a few chips in his mouth, the loud crunch drowning out their introductions. There’s some joke at the expense of the man with a thicker accent and Eric’s mild curiosity is piqued because he’s the tiniest bit familiar.

"Did he used to play?” Eric points at the greying one with tired eyes. Eric waits for an answer and when it doesn't immediately come, he lifts his head from Laurent's chest and sees the other man watching him in disbelief. “What?”

“You don't know who Bob Zimmermann is?”

Eric shakes his head.

“Bad Bob Zimmermann? Bobby Z, The Miracle of Montreal?”

"Ugh, you sound just like my old teammates,” Eric groans, turning back to his computer only to catch a sliver of a smile split Laurent's lips. "Look, Mr. Hockey Jock, I know who Gretzky is, I get points for that.”

"No, not bad. Funny, though, you were flaunting that maple syrup like an expert, that's his brand," Laurent gestures to the screen before taking a long drag from his beer while Eric tries to decipher exactly what the topic they’re both skirting. The commentators aren’t on the screen anymore, they’ve switched to a shot of the ice, but Eric is still stuck on the Zimmermann thing.

“Funny?”

“It’s nothing,” Laurent hedges, keeping his eyes on the screen. “He’s kind of a legend, up there with Gretzky. Pre-Gretzky. But Wayne was so good everyone kind of reset the GOAT scale. People used to say I looked like him. Before my beard, I mean.”

There’s a shade of pride in Laurent’s voice and Eric does the logical thing, tugging Laurent’s chin sideways to examine his face, feigning criticism. “Mmm, I guess,” Eric brushes his thumb across Laurent’s lower lip, squishing gently. “You’re much more handsome than he is, especially with these cheekbones. Are you a fan? Is that why you’ve got his merch?”

Laurent goes pink and pulls away from Eric’s touch.

“You are!” Eric insists, seeing a hint of a smile. “Bet you’ve got a jersey hiding out and everything. All jokes aside, you know you might actually be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, right?”

“You’re only saying that because I’m fucking you.”

“It’s because of your hotness I let you sleep with me,” Eric points out, smacking him lightly on the arm. “My standards are exceptionally high, sir. I am a _snack_.”

They fall into a companionable silence as the game begins, Eric tucking himself into Laurent’s personal space trying not to imagine what it’d be like to stay here, eating chips and watching hockey a million miles from anywhere he’s expected to be. For a moment, Eric lets himself imagine a life where he doesn’t have to do much at all. It’s nice.

It’s also a bold-faced lie of a fantasy.

“My coaches used to say I had as much promise as some of the greats,” Laurent says softly, nudging a chip against Eric’s cheek until he turns his head to bite it.

“What, being handsome isn’t enough?” Eric motions helplessly for his beer until Laurent reaches forward to pick it up for him. “Have to prove you’re a better player than Mr. Bad-Gretzky-McCrosby, too?”

“Maybe I am.” Laurent nods tightly, with a seriousness Eric hadn’t tracked. “Need to show off a bit for you.”

“You did, scored all those goals for me,” Eric cuddles up against his beau, squeezing Laurent’s thigh for emphasis. “Short of going out into the wilderness and chopping wood, bringing back some animal you took down with your bare hands, I’m about as flustered as a man can be.”

“Does that get your blood flowing?” Laurent whispers, not taking his eyes off the game. “Manly men?”

“Among other things.” Eric sets aside his beer and blows on his fingers before shoving his hand under Laurent's shirt, garnering himself an immediate extra half-foot of space as the man bends away from his touch.

“Ah, ha, no!” Laurent shoves Eric a little to take back his seat.

"You know," Eric says, wholly aware he's about to say something extremely premature and wrap it in a big ol white lie as he closes his email, and the 98 unread notifications therein. "Technically, I don't need to be back in the lower 48 for a while yet, though my agent will come runnin' if he hears me talking like that. I've filmed enough I could go a whole month without anyone realizing I'm gone. Could just be you and me, all alone in this cozy apartment, nothing to do but —"

Laurent doesn't let Eric finish, kicking up his foot to slide the ottoman out of the way so he can tug Eric onto his lap.

" _Lapin,_ " Laurent laughs, peppering exaggerated kisses across Eric's face as he tries to keep from laughing. "You can do a whole series about how I swept you off your feet. Wooed you with my roguish charms, emerging from a blizzard to rescue you.”

“I thought you didn’t like to be on camera?”

Laurent captures Eric's lips and slides a hand into his hair, holding him steady through a long, excessively indulgent kiss that leaves Eric boneless and extremely warm. “Exceptions can be made,” Laurent breathes when he pulls away. “Have to stake my claim somehow. Let people know you’re off the market.”

"Oh, is that the way you're playing it?” Eric pushes Laurent's face away playfully with the palm of his hand. "Are you a small town bad boy that goes around shoveling driveways for little old ladies? Or can you just be the big, strong hockey player that scared the bejesus out of me in a snow storm? I like that story, myself."

Laurent's answer is to press more kisses to Eric's hand, the sensation causing Eric's toes to curl and a giggle to rise in his throat.

"Hey, that _tickles_."

"I know," Laurent grins, eyes bright with mischief as he slips a hand under Eric's shirt to tease his stomach. "You're _very_ ticklish. Just one more thing to love about you."

The moment the words leave Laurent’s mouth, they both tense.

"Euh, I mean —"

Quickly, Eric leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Laurent's lips, quieting him. "I think I might love you, too," Eric murmurs, brushing his nose against his partner's beard, knowing he may well be ruining this whole thing. "If that's okay with you; it's fine by me."

Eric looks up and finds Laurent watching him a terribly soft expression.

 _"Lapin,"_ Laurent breathes, nuzzling back against Eric's cheek before giving him a hearty squeeze. "It's fine by me, too."

" _Lapin_ ," Eric echoes, fingers dancing over Laurent's face, tracing the lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his brow, the soft skin where his beard ends. "I know that one. 'Rabbit,’ right?"

“Watch the game.”Laurent presses another kiss to Eric’s hand, cheeks suspiciously pink, and Eric can let the conversation die. Just this once.

“Or, you could watch me.” Eric teases, scratching under Laurent’s chin, earning a sly smile.

“Or, we could watch the game,” Laurent counters. “First period, and then I’ll watch _you_ at the break.”

* * *

* * *

Since his college hockey career went up in flames, Eric’s kept in contact with a few of the guys from his old team who felt particularly bad they couldn’t help him over his checking problem. 

Friendships born of guilt that Eric has carried as small badges of shame/honor, depending on his mood. Today, he doesn’t regret that decision at all when he answers a blurry Skype call from Adam and Justin, with Shitty, Ollie and Wicks weaving in and out of frame. He's missing a reunion for a team he never played a full season with, and it stings just a bit.

“Bitty! The frozen north is doing wonders for you!” Shitty crows, before spying Jack over Eric’s shoulder and gasping. “Eric. Richard. Bittle. Is this handsome fucker with the glorious facial hair the infamous _Laurent_?"

“Damn, dude, you look crazy familiar,” Holster says, leaning in close to the screen. “Have we met? Did you play NCAA hockey?”

“No, no,” Laurent laughs awkwardly, the sound high and tight in a way Eric’s never heard before. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Should see me without the beard.”

Eric gasps, “Honey, no,” and the guys howl with laughter, drowning Holster’s follow up question of, _“Juniors, maybe?”_

“Yeah, Bittle loves the mountain men,” Ransom supplies sagely. "Flows and beards. Gets him every time."

"This is literally the first guy I've dated that has both of those things," Eric mutters and Laurent pokes him playfully in the side.

"We're dating?" Laurent teases, too low for the microphone to pick up.

"So, handsome, sexy, lumberjack man," Shitty starts, pulling Laurent's focus back to the screen, but Eric cuts him off before he gets in too deep.

"Who will heretofore be addressed as ' _Laurent,_ ’” Eric interjects, wagging a finger at the camera. "Do not make me regret this call."

"Motion fails to pass, Bittle,” Holster says sadly, connection shorting just a bit, pixellating his face. “’Sexy Mountain Man’ just has a better ring to it."

"I'll allow it,” Laurent adds, playing along. "It's nice to know I have fans out there who refuse to call me by my name."

"Fans,” Eric scoffs.

"Is it true you got Bits back on the ice?" Ollie asks. "That's a hell of a thing. He hasn't really skated since —"

A short in the video feed has Eric's heart in his throat; he already doesn't like to revisit this particular piece of his history and he especially doesn't want his new ice-blooded beau to know about his fall from D-1 grace.

"— I mean he could have, you know?"

Divine intervention. Eric shoots a quick thank you to the man upstairs and leans into Laurent's proud, if confused, one-armed hug.

"Hey, I'm working on it.” Laurent reaches over and ruffles Eric's hair before he can get out of the way. "Keep hearing he's pretty great, now he needs to prove it."

A round of tinny cheers echoes through the laptop speakers.

* * *

* * *

“What’s this?”

“Jack and Coke, on the house.” Eileen winks at Laurent, who gives her a stern look in response. “What? You two seem like you’re getting cozy.”

Eileen toddles off and Laurent glares at the drink before sliding it in Eric’s direction.

“Is there a joke in there I missed?” Eric asks, examining the cup for any residue or tampering. “What’s wrong with it?”

Laurent turns his eyes up to the bar’s low ceiling, resignation heavy in his tone as he answers quietly, “My first name is Jack, but I go by Laurent.”

The admission doesn’t strike Eric as something particularly scandalous, or funny, for that matter; half his peer group still go by their college nicknames.

“And? What, did you used to have a drinking problem?”

Laurent’s expression sours.

“Tell you what, I don’t need to know whatever weird story is behind this drink, because it was free and I’m going to imbibe,” Eric says candidly before turning to the bar to call out, “Thank you, Eileen!”

The furrow between Laurent’s brows eases, bringing back the soft, genial features Eric had been admiring in their bedroom not too long ago. After a few drinks, a few more songs, Laurent is finally opening up about some of his adventures, animatedly telling Eric about a run in with several poachers, when someone hits the back of Eric’s chair, rocking him forward and the drink he’s holding right out of his hand.

“Excuse you,” Eric curses reflexively, already grabbing for napkins as Laurent scrambles to save their phones. He turns and finds a small group of men, likely hunters, observing Eric with amusement, no sign of an apology on any face. “Maybe watch where you’re walking?”

Eric almost misses the dismissal, a slur thrown so casually it might as well be a greeting, and a dread creeps up his spine as the few people seated around them fall quiet, waiting for something to happen.While Eric is trying to think of a comeback, an out, he looks up and sees Laurent across the table, seething.

“Hey!” Laurent kicks his chair back and pulls up to his full height, making Eric lightheaded in the process. “You got a problem with him you’ve got a problem with me, and I’m happy to set you straight, buddy.”

The verbiage would be funny if Eric wasn’t suddenly afraid for the both of them. The man backs up a step, hands raised in supplication though his expression is still cocky.

“Easy, man, fuck, I meant no harm by it."

" _Meant no harm,_ ” Laurent mocks icily. "He's my guest and you insulted him. Apologize."

After a tense moment, the man turns to Eric and offers a hand for him to shake. Eric doesn't take it.

“A verbal apology will suffice."

"Fine, Princess: I'm sorry I called you a fa—”

Eric doesn't have time to wince before Laurent's fist has connected with the man's face, complete with a crunching sound Eric has long associated with a broken nose. The chaos that follows lasts half as long as expected given the multiple witnesses and Laurent's own standing in the community versus homophobic-whats-his-face, but the man's face is bloodied and he's slurring threats that fall on deaf ears until Eric sees his partner stiffen at the mention of calling the cops. Eileen is the one to usher them both out the door with a strict order to ‘go home,’ and Eric is only slightly perturbed by the idea that he was the one insulted, so why did they have to leave, until he shakes loose of his stupor and finds Laurent is shamefully looking at anything but Eric.

"We should probably leave,” Eric starts, when he has his partner’s attention once more. "Also, maybe call someone? About him?"

"I shouldn't have done that," Laurent curses, scrubbing a rough hand over his face, breathing heavily, almost panting, worse than after the game. "I know better. I _knew_ better. _Fucking shit_ —"

"What? That thing about the cops?” Eric chuffs, brushing a non-existent bit of dust from Laurent's jacket as an excuse for physical contact. "He's a bigoted blowhard. Hot air and empty threats. You were defending me. Everyone saw.”

"I broke his nose.” Laurent’s eyes are wide, shocked. _“Crisse._ That’s assault.”

"He was harassing us."

"He can press charges."

"Well, I certainly would like to see him try —”

Laurent takes Eric's arm and holds him steadfast. “You don’t understand — I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Like, at the bar?”

_“Anywhere.”_

"Oh.” The reaction puffs out Eric’s mouth with a small cloud of vapor. “Oh, fuck. Wait, no, what does that mean? Anywhere? Anywhere-anywhere?”

“If he files a report — ” Laurent is unable to finish the sentence. He falls quiet and heads past Eric, toward the truck. Eric follows, unsure of how to comfort his new beau because his attention is torn a dozen direction because he thinks he just figured out what Laurent is panicking about.

"Aren't you good friends with the sheriff? Maybe he can fix this."

“He’s been turning a blind eye for a long time but I’m not supposed to be here. It's alright; you don't need to fix this," Laurent says, offering a halfhearted smile as he opens the passenger side door for Eric, like a true goddamn gentleman. On top of breaking a man's nose to defend Eric's honor. On top of taking him for drinks. On top of making dinner. On top of a whole mess of wonderful things Eric absolutely does not deserve at the price of Laurent's livelihood.

“God, I’m sorry,” Eric whispers, resting a mittened hand over where Laurent's bare fingers are holding the freezing door. "This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn't come out tonight. Please know I'll do what I can to help you remedy the situation. _If_ you need help. Which I'm not certain you do, everyone in this town loves you —”

Laurent slips Eric's hold and rests his cold hand over Eric's mouth, muffling his nervous rambling.

“Let’s play publicist somewhere warmer, eh?"

“Alright,” Eric climbs into the truck, half-waiting on sirens. “But I know a lot of lawyers. Or, one lawyer.”

* * *

Eric isn’t sober enough to hold a proper conversation when they finally make it back to Laurent’s place; and instead of quiet contemplation, Laurent grabs two beers from the fridge and hands them to Eric.

“I have something to show you,” he says, speech slurring only the tiniest bit as he retreats to the bedroom. “You’ll love it. Since you love skating so much.”

Eric busies himself with finding a bottle opener, and Laurent returns brandishing an old cigar box like the ark of the covenant.

“All my best stuff!” Laurent declares, presenting the box for inspection before flipping it around and digging out a pin featuring a American flag patterned ice skate, thoroughly pleased. “Johnny Weir gave me that,” he boasts. “Got razzed about it for months but my teammates were just jealous.”

Eric takes the pin gently, or as gently as he can given his buzz. “So, you just . . . casually flew to Italy for the Winter Olympics, then?”

“Went with my parents,” Laurent clears his throat, hiding a burp. “Sucks I missed Vancouver but _cést la vie_.”

Eric gets the distinct feeling that the overemphasized French is purely for his benefit, but he stops worrying about impressions when the box fumbles in Laurent’s hands and the contents dump onto the couch, revealing a worn hockey puck, a strand of pink pearls, a few enamel pins, and a plastic bag of photos. Then, as if waiting to make a grand entrance, a large gold ring falls, bounces off the cushion, and lands to rest on the floor with a dull _thunk_. Laurent sobers quickly, plucking the ring from the floor and fisting it like a lifeline, but Eric doesn’t miss the wink of the red and white stones or the familiar logo on the side of the band.

Little boys who grow up with coaches for fathers know what real championship rings look like.

“Oh, shiny! Can I see?”

Laurent shakes his head no, with a kind of jerky, drunken assuredness Eric recalls from his hockey frat days. Instead of prying, Eric takes his warning and goes back for the other treasures, collecting each, admiring as he goes. “Pearls.” Eric lifts the necklace, channelling his inner QVC host to get Laurent to crack a smile, still hiding the ring like Eric’s going to take it the first chance he gets. “More pins from athletes who definitely thought you were hot. A vulcanized piece of rubber? Very nice.”

“First goal.” Laurent nods at the puck, relaxing a smidge. “I was four.”

“Aw, tiny baby Laurent in little skates,” Eric praises, reaching for the stack of photos when he catches sight of a small child in a hockey kit beside an attractive woman with very 90s hair and an equally handsome man, but upside-down it’s hard to tell if there’s any resemblance. “Are these your parents?”

Any ease that had crept into Laurent’s posture vanishes as if he’s realized he’s made some kind of terrible mistake. “It’s late,” he rushes, gathering the items back into the box and away from Eric’s prying eyes. Not for the first time since Eric has arrived does he wonder if Laurent’s parents have passed, as there’s no small measure of grief in his reactions. Or guilt, for that matter.

“No worries, Sweetpea,” Eric smiles, resting a hand on Laurent’s bouncing knee. “Thank you for sharing the pin."

Eric isn't certain, but he's pretty sure he's never been on a date where the mood's been so thoroughly ruined this many times.

* * *

Eric wakes to darkness, an empty bed, and the din of hushed voices coming from beyond the bedroom.

_“— Slapped the guy with a drunk and disorderly to get the state trooper to back down but you need to watch it. With all this political bullshit I can’t keep —”_

_“It was an accident. It won’t happen again.”_

_“You’re right it won’t happen again, because it can’t. This arrangement only works if you play by the rules, and with that YouTube-famous kid floating around — ”_

Eric sits up blearily and catches his own reflection in the dresser mirror: sex hair, bags under his eyes, the sheets rucked low around his waist. He tries to think of who’d be visiting Laurent’s apartment this early, but he’s hungover, on both adrenaline and Canadian whiskey, and drops his head to the pillow, listening to the rest of the conversation half-heartedly as he stares at the wall, waiting for Laurent to come back to bed.

_“It won’t happen again.”_

_“Just, call down to the station if you need anything. You know we all love you, you’ve near single handedly put half our kids through college, but this is the last time I can cover for you. I mean it.”_

_“. . . I understand.”_

_“Alright. I’ve said my piece. Donna wanted me to ask if you’d bring your boyfriend to dinner this weekend.”_

_“He’s not my boyfriend. We aren’t —”_

_“Don’t start lying, I saw you fumble that pass. You’re a goner, Jack. Bring him by and we’ll do a roast.”_

Eric is too tired to remember who Jack is, or if there’s a third person stomping around the apartment in heavy boots; he falls back into blissful unconsciousness, waking again only when Laurent slips back into bed, wrapping his arms around Eric.

“. . . Read you the riot act, baby,” Eric mumbles, blindly reaching for his partner’s face as he snuggles close. “Don’t worry I’ll protect you.” Eric feels a pair of dry lips against his temple, and there’s nothing more to be said on the matter.

* * *

* * *

Eric knew this would happen, he'd just hoped it wouldn't come so soon. He's already pushed off his work as long as he dares, only so many videos he can record in Alaska without derailing his twelve-month plan. He's gained followers from the new format but he's lost just as many who were more interested in elaborate desserts than doe-eyed mountain adventures. Eric has an image he needs to maintain if he's going to build his brand. No matter how badly he wants to stay wrapped up in a downy comforter, in the arms of a new love, Mystery just isn't a part of the long-term equation. Neither is a handsome French-Canadian with kind eyes and expired papers.

“Thought I’d find you out here,” Laurent greets. “You know it's supposed to be good luck to conceive a child under the northern lights. A lot of tourists try to accomplish that while they're here."

"Hell of a way to tell me you've had a whole lot of randy couples in your guest room, hon. You lookin' to get me pregnant?" Eric sighs, ignoring the crick in his neck from looking straight up at the sky. "Raise an army of blue-eyed lumberjack ice babies?”

“Is it selfish I don’t want you to leave?”

“I don’t know about selfish . . .” Eric looks away from the sky and finds Laurent’s gaze trained resolutely on the snow beneath his feet. “‘Selfish’ implies you have no concern for what I want. You already know I'd stay if I could.”

“Needy, then,” Laurent amends, breath puffing out in small clouds against the night air. The furrow between Laurent’s brows is back; Eric can’t help but reach out and smooth the skin until his expression softens. “It’s not just the sex,” Laurent admits. “I like you. A lot.”

"I know that, sweetheart," Eric soothes, squeezing Laurent's hand tightly, "and you know I have to go home."

"Eric?” Laurent swallows hard, drawing Eric's attention from the sky. “Travel is. . . difficult for me."

"The passport thing,” Eric echoes, trying to ignore the guilt coloring his partner's cheeks. "Then I'll just have to come back here myself, won't I? In the summer, this time, so you can take me berry-picking, like you promised, and I'll make jam, like I promised."

"I think I might love you.” Laurent glosses Eric’s olive branch, forcing himself like the words physically pain him.

“Maybe, I might feel the same," Eric counters, a melancholy happiness swelling in his chest. “A pair we are, huh.”

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Laurent’s grip tightens a touch. “The last few weeks, you’ve been honest about so much and I’ve —”

“Been keeping more secrets than a Catholic Priest? Sweetheart, you ain’t half as subtle as you think you are. Don’t want to be on camera, expired papers, an uncanny knowledge of the inner workings of the NHL, and that gaudy hunk of gold you didn’t want me to see?”

Eric hoists himself onto the liftgate of Laurent’s truck so he’s face-to-face with his partner; reaching up to scratch his gloved fingers over Laurent’s beard, trying to soothe him.

“Tell me, then.” Laurent implores, eyes so blue and so dang sad. “Who do you think I am?”

Eric thinks back on a half-dozen aborted conversations, aware he’s channeling a few insecurities about his own father.

“That ring was probably your daddy’s, so I’d say you were living up to some big expectations about the same time you realized you had some pretty strong urges for the wrong kind of parts,” Eric runs his thumb along Laurent’s cheek as the man’s eyes glint wetly, back and forth, soothing him the only way he can. “Hockey isn’t so nice to people who are different. Now you’re here, with me, under these big ol’ lights, and I’m making you weep.”

“Not making me weep,” Laurent laughs, tugging out of Eric’s hands to brush his hair out of his face. “You gathered all this from a few weeks?”

“Gathered that from being the undersized, queer son of a Southern Baptist football coach. If I had a superpower, it’d be clocking closeted athlete dysfunction at a thousand yards.”

“I worked so hard for so long just to get cold feet,” Laurent sniffs, the sound deepening into something gross before he turns his head and spits into the snow. “Just walked away like it was nothing.”

“And I bailed on a full-ride college scholarship,” Eric nods in understanding. “We’ve all been there. One way or another, everyone’s got an origin story. I’m sorry yours was just so boring and predictable. Gay hockey player turned mountaineering bad-ass, whatever. Now, gay hockey player turned YouTube famous ingenue baker, that’s a story.”

Laurent grimaces, his bright eyes flicking up to meet Eric’s guiltily.

“I don’t think you’re using that correctly.”

“Well, I was innocent before I got here and some beastly man ravished me,” Eric teases. “But I am really happy you’re here, even with your troubles, or else I’d never have found you and gained such a cute boyfriend.”

“What am I supposed to do if you don’t come back?” Laurent queries. “Wrestle polar bears? Cook for myself, _again_? I’ll die.”

“Oh, I’d sure hope not,” Eric tugs Laurent forward by his jacket. “But we still have a week or so before I begin my death march back to the lower 48. How about we make the best of it?”

This time, Eric pulls Laurent down for a kiss and doesn’t let up until he can feel the tension seep from his partner’s body.

* * *

* * *

The video cycles through and Eric is quick to remind Laurent that he hasn’t polished the editing yet.

“I don’t look half bad,” Laurent taps the screen over his image, just hard enough the pixels distort briefly and Eric flinches. “Could use a shave.”

“I like your beard,” Eric defends, already imagining what Laurent might look like sans the hair that covers the lower half of his face. “Adds to the authenticity.”

“I think the snow outside does a better job of that.” Laurent absently tugs at the longer strands on his chin. “You’ve never seen me clean shaven; people used to think I was pretty handsome, maybe it’s time to shave the old girl. Plus, I know you don’t love beard-burn.”

“Depends on the circumstances,” Eric chides, taking a sip of his coffee because he really doesn’t like how irritated his skin gets when his partner is feeling amorous, but the idea of it is arousing as all get out; he sighs, aware of how this all must sound when Jack starts laughing at him.

“Scale of one to ten, how scared are you I’m deformed under this thing?”

“Lord,” Eric covers his face and whispers, “Maybe a six?”

Laurent howls until Eric can see tears shining in his eyes before he jumps to his feet and takes a deep breath.

“Settled. I’m shaving it tonight.”

Eric spins in his chair, leaning on the backrest. “If you shave, I’ll leave you,” he cautions. “Walk right out that door and hop on a plane.”

“Wasn’t that already happening?” Laurent makes a show of checking his watch, nearly stumbling over Boots in the process.

“I bet you’re ugly!” Eric calls, turning back to his computer. “Just hideous,” he sighs, tweaking the saturation before clicking save and checking the timer on the oven, ignoring the sound of water running in the bathroom.

* * *

“You ready?”

“For the third time, yes!”

Eric tries to focus on icing his sugar cookies and not his partner’s teasing because he’s already embarrassed enough about the whole thing when Laurent shouts from the bathroom, “I just need you to be prepared. You’re going to regret sleeping with me.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad!” Eric calls back, adjusting his grip on his makeshift piping bag to keep blue frosting from creeping out the back. “You have amazing bone structure.”

“I really do, thank you,” a voice says softly from right behind Eric, startling him.

“Good Lord! Don’t scare me — Oh. Hi.”

Eric’s higher function up and vanishes, because Laurent’s beard is gone and he looks like a different person, an extremely handsome person with a jawline that should be featured in magazines, not hidden under three inches of beard in the Alaskan wilderness.

“Holy hell.”

“Warned you.” Laurent smirks, vindicated, vogueing a frame around his face before taking Eric’s hand and bringing it to his cheek.

“Your face is so soft,” Eric breathes, running his fingers over Laurent’s still-damp cheeks. “I get the beard now. Hard to stay anonymous when you’re beating off suitors with a stick. What am I going to do with you? Every gay man for a thousand miles just felt the earth shift — my god, look at your _cheekbones_.”

“Your hands are soft,” Laurent turns his head and presses a kiss to Eric’s palm. “No promises but clean shaven means we have a limited window of no beard burn.”

“ _Mister Collins_ ,” Eric gasps, lifting his piping bag to squish a dot of light blue frosting on the tip of his partner’s nose. “How scandalous. What will the neighbors think?”

“They’ll probably think we’re fucking.”

“He speaks the truth,” Eric unties his apron and allows himself to be led to the bedroom. “Didn’t need to finish those cookies anyway.”

* * *

* * *

“There we go,” Eric smiles when the wifi stays intact long enough to upload the video. “Now you’re famous.”

“Haha, no one’s going to care about the mountain man in the background of your video. They’ll be too focused on this handsome face,” Laurent leans down and presses his lips to Eric’s cheek, more of a face-smush than a kiss.

“Lord — get off,” Eric laughs, half-heartedly pushing Laurent away until Eric can turn his head enough for a proper kiss. He’s going to miss this — the casual intimacy, the overfamiliarity that comes with living together, even if only for a short time.

“I don’t want you to go,” Laurent murmurs against his lips, practically reading Eric’s mind. “I want you to stay here forever.”

“Oh, honey, I want that too — ” Eric drops his chin so Laurent’s lips are against his brow “ — obviously, but I have to go back to Atlanta at some point. I need to meet with my publicist and my editor and the sooner all of that is done, the sooner I can come back and freeze my ass off with you.”

“Good, because Mystery needs some Georgia sunshine, eh? ” Laurent squeezes Eric’s shoulders tightly. “You have to see summer. Sun’s out ’til midnight, salmon everywhere, you could make some real nice jam with all the berries that come in. All those websites say you make the best jam, I’d like to try it.”

Eric fights the swell in his chest and lifts his arms to awkwardly hug Laurent back.

“I hope you come back,” Laurent's eyes are red when he pulls back. “I’d like to see you again.”

“You’ll have to come see me, too, Sugar, I’d love to show you Georgia.” Eric cups Laurent’s cheek in his gloved hand only to watch the man’s smile dim. Eric holds up his other hand, pinky extended. Laurent’s lips quirk before he loops his finger around Eric’s. “I’ll come back,” Eric promises. "Just don't go getting into any trouble while I'm gone."

“This is my promise,” Eric takes a breath and offers Señor Bun to Laurent, palms open and respectful to convey importance of the immense offering. “Bun goes with me everywhere, I legally have to return for him. Also, if you hurt him I will call the government on you, and I’m only half kidding.”

Laurent’s eyes are huge, doubtful, but nonetheless, he gently takes Bun, cradling the stuffed rabbit.

“Are you sure?”

“Not at all.”

Laurent presses another kiss to Eric's lips, light and frantic, before dashing to his bedroom. Eric waits, listens as his partner rustles around the room, and starts to move toward the sound just as Laurent reemerges, clutching something tightly in his fist; something clearly meant for Eric.

"You don't have to look at it now, or ever, but I trust you," Laurent says, breathless like he isn't sure what to do next, his droopy eyes even sadder now that his facial hair is gone, closing Eric's fingers around the small bag, holding his hand gently. Eric recognizes the pouch, but inside he can feel two rings, not just the one he recalls from before.

“You take care of these. I’ll take care of Bun,” Laurent swallows.

“A hostage exchange, then?” Eric jokes, earning a smile. “Return in a few months to sort things out?”

“ _Crisse_ , yes. Months, or weeks, preferably,” Laurent laughs, refusing to make eye contact, pressing his lips together to keep himself from saying anything painful. “We should probably go. Don’t want to miss your flight, eh?”

* * *

The short drive to the outbuilding Mystery calls its ‘airport’ is horribly, awkwardly silent. A few times, Eric opens his mouth to speak, and Laurent waits patiently, but nothing comes out. It isn’t until Eric catches sight of the plane as they’re unloading his bags that the tears come.

"Hey. You don't have to worry about me," Laurent whispers, lips brushing against Eric's cheek as he holds him tightly. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be alright. I always am.”

"You better,” Eric drops his head against Laurent's chest. "Promise me you won't get yourself deported, okay?"

"I won't get into trouble without you here to instigate it. Made it this far on my own."

They aren't alone. As the first flight in several weeks, the airstrip is bustling with a handful of cars, hunters unloading trucks full of gear and ice-packed boxes of game. Eric appears to be the only one being seen off by a partner. Boots noses at Eric’s hand and snuffles excitedly.

"Rude. If you get into rough water, you call me, okay? Promise? Hope you know I'm going to be writing about this," Eric clears his throat and looks up at the grey morning sky, blinking away tears. "Sell a screenplay about us for a bunch of money, get myself an EP credit. It'll end up a low budget summer romcom. Barely make back the production budget because we just had to hire some teen heartthrob as the male lead, even though he can’t do a French-Canadian accent to save his life—”

Eric’s tirade trails off into a hiccuping sob as Laurent pulls him into a tight hug, one gloved hand mussing his hair in an attempt at comfort.

"You'll need an ending, first,” Laurent soothes. “So you have to come back and see me again, eh?”

Eric turns to leave but his attempt at making the moment less painful fails when he feels Laurent grab his hand, tugging him back to face his increasingly despondent boyfriend.

“What?” Eric doesn't have time to parse out the emotion behind Laurent’s expression because the plane is boarding and he still hasn't dropped his luggage, but he’s empathetic enough to recognize something beyond his understanding has just occurred.

“I didn’t lie about who I am, just,” Laurent pulls back, clearly regretting whatever he's admitted but looking as determined as Eric has ever seen him. Laurent reaches down and scratches Boots behind the ears. “It’s not important, but, it is. To me.”

“I know who you are,” Eric says, realizing he actually believes the words coming out of his mouth. He’s known Laurent to be a private man with more than a few secrets since day one. “But we’re going to call you when I get into Atlanta, okay? It feels like we need to talk more about whatever is going on in you.”

“I love you.” Laurent breathes, eyes growing damp in a way Eric isn’t prepared for.“That’s what’s going on.”

“Cause you’re so good at thinking,” Eric chirps, fighting his own renewed tears and earning a laugh. “Big ‘ol brain on you. Big as your butt, even.”

“I love that you got a mouth on you,” Laurent amends. “Shouldn’t though. Me and my big ‘ol butt didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”

Eric reaches up and fists his hand in the scarf at Lauren’t throat and tugs gently, encouraging him to lean down.

“Well, that’s a pity,” Eric teases. “Because I, personally speaking, love all of you, and I’m going to miss you very much, Mister Jack Laurent.”

A low whine comes from deep in Laurent’s throat when Eric uses the name, almost pained, and Boots shuffles nervously, sensing the change in energy.

“Please, come back, Eric.” Laurent whispers.

“I’ll do my best,” Eric breathes, pulling away, knowing he needs to leave. “That’s all I can promise.”

Laurent’s smile wavers enough Eric needs to tug him down again, taking his lips in a last, lingering kiss; far from chaste as Laurent slides his hand into Eric’s hair, cradling the back of his head.

* * *

Eric looks out the small window and sees Laurent’s beat-up blue truck idling near the end of the runway fence, exhaust curling in the cold morning air, waiting for Eric’s plane to leave. He lifts his phone to snap a picture of the landscape, the truck in frame enough to not become the focus, and with the last threads of his cellular connection, Eric tweets: _‘When you realize home isn’t a place, it’s a person’._

The velvet pouch is heavy in Eric's jacket pocket. Whatever the man has been hiding, whatever he felt brave enough to share with Eric, could be explained by the rings. Which means anyone else might be able to figure it out, too. Eric moves the pouch to his backpack, hides it deep in the zipper pocket he uses for his passport. Out of sight, out of mind. Safe.

* * *

Twenty-eight hours later, Eric is standing in line for a Varsity hot-dog in Terminal C at Hartsfield-Jackson, bleary eyed with a minor hangover thanks to jetlag and alcohol-inclusive expense accounts.

Eric’s phone is on silent; he’s long since given up on checking every comment, every retweet, every message, especially after his time offline the past few weeks. Not quite a full serotonin detox, but he feels refreshed. New. Even if his head is killing him and he wants for nothing more than to be back in the wilderness, tucked beneath a big ol' teddy bear of a Canadian. Eric gets his hot dog, crouches on an empty terminal bench like a mass-transit gremlin, and swipes away old notifications until he reaches a message from Laurent, now nearly a day old with the time change.

_'You're my person, too.'_

Warmth rises in Eric’s chest, distracting him from the remaining notifications relating to his latest video upload, including two verified accounts hidden amongst his newest followers.

* * *


	5. Part IV - Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a very long time, and you've all been so patient. Covid really knocked me out of my comfort zone for this fic and I've been trying to drag myself back. My original ending idea doesn't seem appropriate anymore so I'm reworking things, in the interim, please enjoy Bitty figuring out his boyfriend is secretly a missing celebrity. I hope you like it <3

Face squished against his pillow, one eye blearily tracking his notifications, Eric swipes each away slowly with his thumb, refusing to give into sleep just yet. Down the hall, Eric can hear his parents getting ready for bed; having been courteous enough to wait for him to get home. For the first time in months, Eric’s back in his own bed, and he absolutely _hates_ it.

 _‘Made it back safe’,_ Eric texts Laurent carefully, not willing to adjust his position to accommodate the action, accepting the inevitable typos. _‘Wishing I was still in the wilderness with a certain handsome man, tho’_.

Eric smiles when Laurent doesn’t send an emoji heart, going so far as to type out a less-than-three that doesn’t auto correct. Eric’s in love. Messy, sticky, highly-problematic love, but love all the same. As he’s drafting a response, a banner notification from Twitter drops at the top of his screen, and a blue check mark winks up at him. He barely has time to click it before another banner has kicked down the first. Another blue check.

_‘@AliciaZ started following you’_

_‘@KP90 started following you’_

Eric lifts his head slightly to better focus on his phone screen, not recognizing the handles offhand. While he’s parsing it out, more banners pop in. DM notifications, new follows, a fair number of mentions snowballing far too quickly to just be tangentially related to his newest uploads. Either he’s being trolled, he’s hit a shit list somewhere, or something blew up proper in a good way (and it’s almost never the latter).

Then, as if the last push over the edge, the moment Eric turns off Do Not Disturb, the old Samwell group chat lights up with over a hundred missed messages.

Eric groans, pushing himself upright and clicking on his nightstand light to drag over his laptop and get a better handle on what crisis is happening online.

When he’s reconnected to his parent’s wifi after a stressful 30 seconds of buffering, he starts clicking through his mentions — of which there are considerably more than normal —and the same unfamiliar name keeps popping up over and over alongside different screenshots of a clean-shaven Laurent from his last upload.

_‘Awww, he’s a cutie! Nice catch @omgcheckplease!’_

_‘Is anyone else seeing this? I’m not taking crazy pills…’_

_‘Damn, @lobo587, maybe don’t tag Bad Bob about a dude that looks like his dead son????’_

_‘Okay, first off, nothing was proven. Still think the Pens had JZ knocked off so he wouldn’t dethrone Crosby’_

_‘I FUCKING KNEW IT’_

_‘This comment section is disgusting. Have some fucking respect!’_

_‘The terrible moment the hockey and baking fandoms come together to investigate if @omgcheckplease is boning Bad Bob Zimmermann’s ‘missing-presumed-dead’ son.’_

“What the fuck is all this?” Eric whispers, dragging himself to lucidity as he tries to piece together what disaster is happening online. Eric’s halfway through drafting a _‘y’all are nuts leave these good people alone’_ tweet when a nagging doubt drags him to a new tab, fingers dancing lazily across the keys to type _‘Jack Zimmermann_ ’ into Google only to find hundreds of photos of a young man with familiar blue eyes staring back at him, pictures attached to articles with titles like: _‘Top NHL Prospect Still Missing’_ , _‘Search Ends for Hockey Legend’s Son’_ , and _‘A Canadian Tragedy: What Happened to Jack Zimmermann?’_

Eric will freely admit he’s rarely the smartest man in any room, but he’s not nearly thick enough to miss the way his partner’s troubled past seems to dovetail so nicely with a ten-year-old missing persons case.

It takes a moment for Eric to regroup, jumping between source articles before he turns to YouTube and scours through old videos to find a clip of a 17-year-old Jack Zimmermann giving an interview in a soft baritone that cracks when his accent gets too heavy. Eric has spent enough time in his partner’s presence to know his quirks, his speech patterns, and there is little doubt in Eric’s mind that Laurent Collins and Jack Zimmermann are the same person.

While Eric’s contemplating his public response, and racking his brain for every conversation he’d shared with Laurent about his estranged family, he hovers too long over a video and begins auto-playing an interview with one of Zimmermann’s former teammates, Las Vegas Aces’ Captain Kent Parson, a man Eric recognizes from many a drunk night spent with Ransom and Holster.

“— _I don’t want to speculate. I hope he’s out there somewhere just living his life — It’s been, what, seven years? Eight? Wherever he is, I hope he's happy. That's my statement. C'mon, does anyone want to ask about the game?_ ”

A text buzzes in.

‘ _The house is so empty without you. I think even my oven knows you’re gone.’_

Another buzz. Another text.

_‘I tried to do that chicken thing you showed me but I fucked it up and didn’t use enough seasoning? I’m really missing you. And you’re cooking. Mostly you.’_

_'your*'_

The typing dots dance for a few seconds before Eric is graced with a image of Laurent with a fork dangling out of his mouth; his eyes are soft, expression fond, and a smile is pulling at the corner of his lips. It’s only been two days and the dark stubble around his chin is creeping back. He looks happy. He looks like he’s in love. He doesn’t look like a strung-out addict or mentally-ill prodigy.

Laurent shared enough about his childhood that Eric can corroborate the story he knows with the one he’s only just discovering if he reads between the lines: Jack was the son of a hockey legend and an actress. Jack was going to be drafted first overall in 2009 to become the greatest hockey player in the world. Jack was anxious. Jack was unhappy. Then Jack was gone, and nine years later, in a tiny Alaskan town, Eric Bittle met a man named Laurent.

Laurent, who shovels driveways for little old ladies without asking anything in return. Laurent, who skates like he was born on the ice and doesn’t comb his hair after he showers. Laurent, who giggles if you tickle his feet. Laurent, who reads college textbooks for fun and watches WWII documentaries when he isn’t teaching small children how to celly or rescuing stranded outdoorsman from the unforgiving Alaskan wilderness.

Laurent Collins, who’s real name is probably Jack Laurent Zimmermann.

Eric takes a moment to repeat his mantra, breathing in on a five count and exhaling slowly before covering his face with a pillow to scream quietly. There’s no way he could have pieced something like this together from context clues alone, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, Eric can only wonder why he didn’t put his detective skills to work weeks ago.

Suddenly, Eric remembers the rings, and he leans across his bed to grab at the handle of his backpack, still hanging off the bedpost. The pouch is right where he left it beside his passport. Heavy. Incriminating.

“Lord, if you’re up there, don’t let this be what I think it is,” Eric whispers, untying the knot in the drawstring to dump out the contents. The first ring rolls into his palm, immediately bringing the Canadiens' logo and _'Zimmermann'_ into view. The second ring bears a gem-encrusted maple leaf and reads _‘World Juniors Championship 2009’_ , with a different number — a different _‘Zimmermann_ ’ — etched on the band. 

“ _Fuck_.” Eric sighs.

* * *

Twitter is an absoulte mess. Eric’s gained several thousand followers and every single one wants to know if the man in the video is Jack. He doesn’t do the honest thing when he tweets, _‘Hold your horses! So much drama! Sorry to burst the conspiracy theory bubble, y’all, that’s just a friend of mine who looks a bit too much like @BadBob when he shaves #lookalikecontest #availableforparties’_

Eric scrubs his hands over his face, hoping against hope he’s able to undo even a fraction of the damage he’s already caused. As the likes tick up on new tweet he loses just as many bandwagon followers; until finally a new mention drops into his feed.

_‘@BadBob @AliciaZ Thank you for all the messages and well wishes. Our son is not in @omgcheckplease’s video.’_

The feeling that accompanies the mention is not a warm one.

Eric doesn’t know why Laurent abandoned his life or his family. He doesn’t know if his parents were abusive, or if Laurent was unstable, or any of a thousand variables that amount to a hill of beans almost a decade after the fact. What he does know is that he’s in a new relationship that definitely cannot weather a cross-country identity crisis and conspiracy theories (even true ones).

“Hell's bells.” Eric groans, kicking a shoe across the room in frustration before standing and facing himself down in the mirror hanging from the closet door. He’s too riled up and needs to release some of the cortisol threatening to make his head pound and his jaw shake. He could message Bob Zimmermann. He could message Alicia. He could call Laurent and tell him what he knows. He could post on his blog, record a new video, or write a damn screenplay about his trip.

“Stay in your lane, Bittle,” he orders at his reflection. “Not your circus, not your monkeys.”

Except, they are his monkeys; he's the only real connection between any of these people. It’s his fault this is happening at all. He could do anything, but what he does is pull on a pair of sweats and toe downstairs to get a beer from the fridge in the garage, the last remaining from a six pack hidden behind the tonic water. He foregoes returning back to his room and moves to the porch, hoping the night air with clear his head. It’s cool, but not cold. He knows cold, now. He misses cold. Or, he just misses Laurent. No. Jack.

Eric kicks his leg up against the railing and rocks the porch swing, considering what kind of future he wants. Does he want to be famous? Does he want a chic condo in Buckhead, or to build a pop-up in Ponce City Market? How much effort does he want to expend managing a relationship four thousand miles away with a man he’ll need to hide, possibly forever? How much energy is he wasting right now, before any of these things have even come to pass?

Eric checks the likes again. Remembering that Laurent watches his videos, and has a twitter account for the guide shop. Sure enough, MysteryIceTours has liked Eric’s debunking tweet. The user has not done the same for Bob Zimmermann's response.

With a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, Eric opens his Delta app and blows half-a-year’s worth of miles on a flight _back_ to Anchorage. After he meets with his team he’s heading to see ‘his’ Laurent; not the ghost of a man the rest of the world seems to be looking for.

 _“Fuck.”_ Eric breathes, swatting at a mosquito with his free hand. “If I have to marry that boy to get him a green-card . . .“

“Dickey? Honey, what are you doing out here?” His mother’s soft voice brings Eric back from the moon-drenched yard and his troubled thoughts. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Eric drops his head back against the bench and takes in the image of Suzanne Bittle, swimming in an old UGA hoodie and pajama pants. He fights the sudden urge to cry. “You have time?” He asks softly, able to make out the way her eyes widen in the dim light.

“Oh! Okay, um, you’ve never — just let me —?”

“I’ve got a whole story, mama,” Eric amends, answering the question she isn’t asking before turning his gaze back to the stars, not nearly as numerous and bright this close to metro Atlanta. Definitely not clear enough to see the Milky Way, and far too south for the watercolor bands of the aurora borealis. Suzanne disappears back into the house and returns after a few minutes with a blanket and mug that Eric knows is filled with wine. His mother is nothing if not consistent.

“You took the last Tropicalia.”

“There’s still half left,” Eric hands her the can but she waves him off, motioning to her own mug.

“I raised you better than that,” Suzanne chides. “I assume something good happened in Alaska for you to want to stay up there so long, and something equally terrible for you to be drinking in the middle of the night when it’s this damp.”

“You follow my twitter. You know I met someone.”

“Mmmm,” Suzanne takes a sip and gives him a knowing look. “Kinda sounded like you were falling in lust.”

“His name is Laurent,” Eric struggles to figure out a place to start because he’s so consumed with the events of the evening he can’t quite frame his memory the way he’d like. “But it might not be? Not really?”

The tears come hot and fast, choking him into silence.

“Oh, honey,” his mother gathers him up in her arms and it’s too much and not enough at the same time. “It’s okay. Everyone gets their heart broken sometimes.”

His mother murmurs soft nothings against his hair until he begins to calm, but Eric works himself up again thinking about Jack living alone in the middle of nowhere while his parents are still hunting for any sign of life and Eric has his mama right here.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Eric sobs, clutching at her. “I messed up and I’m gonna hurt him.”

“You’re still talking?”

“Yes, that’s the problem. He doesn’t know I know? Or maybe he does because he told me? But he didn’t tell me he just gave me these cryptic clues and —“

“Breathe.”

Eric shakes his head and coughs, fighting another bout of crying because he’s an _adult_ , he should be able to handle being scandal-adjacent; hell, half the time he’s the one who’s the problem in the first place.

“You can’t tell anyone, not even Judy, you have to promise me, until I figure this out — you have to swear.”

“Absolutely. Pinky swear,” Suzanne extends her pinky and Eric hooks his finger around hers. “Now what are you going on about.”

The story of his time in Alaska comes so quickly he can barely keep up with his own thoughts, stumbling over tangents and stupid details: he tells her about the snow storm, Mystery, meeting Laurent and being stuck in this tiny, perfect town for weeks. He tells her how a one-night-stand turned into something more. He tells her about Laurent’s vague past and his love of history. He tells her about the northern lights, the snow, the scant daylight, and realizing he didn’t want to come home.

She stays silent throughout, stroking his hair when he stumbles or gets too choked up, but she finally asks, “Is that the secret? That you didn’t want to come home?”

Eric shakes his head and fumbles with his phone, vision blurry as he pulls up one of the many posts that have flooded his feed in the last twelve hours.

“Oh, well I guess they do look a little alike, don't they? Though I don’t see a need to poke that poor boy’s parents. That family has been through so much,” Suzanne says softly, reaching to scroll down to the comments below. “Are you embarrassed that these people reached out to the Zimmermanns because of what you posted?”

“No, mama.” Eric buries his face against his mother’s chest. “The problem is they’re right. He _is_ Jack Zimmermann.”

“I highly doubt that some random man you started seeing in the middle of nowhere is the long-lost son of a celebrity couple. That’s grade-A madness.”

Eric fusses with google and pulls up a photo of the Zimmermann family in 2009, then slides to the selfie Laurent sent barely an hour earlier, showing his mother the two pictures like he’s a lawyer trying to convince a jury the murderer is ‘ _in this very room’_.

“He’s French-Canadian,” Eric emphasizes, exhaustion catching up to him as he ticks points off on his fingertips, “he told me he moved out when he turned eighteen because he didn’t want to go into the ‘family business’, he skates like he was born on the ice — Mama, his name is ‘ _Laurent Collins_ ’.Laurent was Jack's middle name, and Alicia Zimmermann's maiden name is Collins.”

Eric pulls Laurent’s father’s ring from his sweats and dangles it in the air off his hooked thumb, leaving Jack’s championship ring resting warm against his thigh. She takes it carefully, inspecting the stones and engravings with a critical eye. Suzanne is silent for a beat too long and Eric looks up just in time to see her crack up laughing.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she giggles, waving off the concern holding the ring up to catch the light from inside the house, making the diamonds sparkle. “You could have led with Bad Bob’s championship ring, Dickey. That’s pretty solid proof.”

The mood settles and they’re back to themselves, rocking gently on a creaky porch swing, Eric finishing his now-warm beer as his mother dances the ring across her fingers.

“I think I defused the situation, but it’s the internet, you know? People are going to believe what they want to. I’m worried I’ve put a target on his back. I mean, he almost got caught after that fight — ”

She offers the ring back with a contemplative frown.

“Well, seems to me he gave you the only thing in the world that could identify him. If this is all real, and it looks like it may well be, he’s probably expecting to be found. The first thing you need to do is make sure that you’re even on the right track. You’re down here in a tizzy and it sounds like you haven’t spoken to him about any of it. He know you’re working yourself into a fit?”

“…No.”

“If he’s half the man you’re telling me he is, I don’t think he’d want you suffering all these fears alone.”

Eric takes a steadying breath, as if somehow he'll manage to calm himself when the hardest part of the evening is about to come, and whines on the exhale even as he drafts a text for Laurent that absolutely does not convey the seriousness of the moment.

_‘I’m meeting with a few people about my book tomorrow but them I’m coming back up to see you.’_

Twenty seconds later, a reply: _‘Couldn’t stay away could you haha doesn’t matter. can’t wait’_

“Go on, honey,” Suzanne whispers, wrapping him in a loose hug as she snoops over his shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

Eric puts both rings on his fingers, keeping them pressed together so he can catch a photo before they roll upside down. That photo goes into a message, flies halfway across the world, and Eric watches the little dots dance while Laurent slowly composes a response. The dots stop, and Eric panics.

 _‘I’m not going anywhere,’_ Eric follows up quickly, when Laurent’s reply doesn’t come. _‘I just have a lot of questions’_

The dots stop. Start. Stop again. Then Eric’s phone starts vibrating in his hand, startling he and Suzanne both as a familiar photo of Eric and Laurent lights up the screen with an incoming call.

“Honey?” Eric answers softly, gently shooing his mother away for at least the illusion of privacy, but she doesn’t budge.

_“I wasn't sure you'd figure it out. You said you didn’t follow hockey.”_

Eric can hear Laurent’s breathing through the line, rough and unsettled.

“Darlin’,” Eric leans forward and breaks his mother’s hold. "You gave me a whole mess of clues, and then basically a confession note. Honestly, I'm a bit embarrassed it took me this long. When you find yourself in the middle of a missing person’s case, cavorting with a man who isn’t who he says he is, you’d think your mama’d raised you with better sense, you know?”

 _“. . . I’m not dangerous,”_ Laurent says after a moment, as if caught between lies.

“Oh, so you didn’t kill Jack Zimmermann and steal his valuables while he was fleeing to the Alaskan wilderness?”

Silence. Then, _“No, I am Jack Zimmermann.”_

“I know, sweetie. I was kidding.”

_“Oh.”_

“God, this is so weird.” Eric breathes, resting his elbows against his knees and dropping to rest his forehead on his palm. “This is so damn weird, Laurent. Or should I call you Jack, now?”

A non-committal noise comes through the phone.

“Laurent, then.” Eric exhales. “Alright. This is fine. Everything’s fine, but I have to go. Just. . . you hold tight, Sugar. I’ll see you again real soon and we’ll sort all this out. I promise.”

_“Promise?”_

The question comes softly across the line, painfully hopeful.

“Pinky promise.” Eric swears, looking to his mother still hovering near the swing. Neither man hangs up, and Eric listens to his partner breathe from thousands of miles away.

“I love you.” Eric whispers, looking away from her, his eyes burning at the way Laurent’s breath hitches. “I love you very much, and I’ll see you very soon.”

________________

Eric loves flying. Always has. He likes the energy of bustling airport terminals, the elitism of airline lounges, bottomless drinks, surprise upgrades and amenity kits; the idea that he can go to sleep in one world and wake up in another . . . That said, Eric has never taken a trip as thoroughly unpleasant as this one, so wired on his own anxiety that he relents and pops a valium from his emergency stash before the plane’s even left the gate just to stop fidgeting; an inauspicious start to his journey on the leg between ATL and Sea-Tac.

He connects to the inflight wi-fi and ignores everything that isn’t Laurent, clicking away messages from his Editor, his Producer, his mother, and countless direct messages and mentions on Twitter before finally turning on do-not-disturb and rewatching the unused footage he’d taken of the hockey game in Mystery.

 _‘Can’t believe you flubbed that pass last week just because I waved at you’_ , Eric types to Laurent. _‘Aren’t you supposed to be a professional?’_

_‘How could I focus when you’re in the stands like this?’_

After several long moments, a photo appears: a dated picture of a familiar child t-posing in a puffy red snowsuit with a thick scarf wrapped around his head. The bark of laughter that escapes Eric has his seat-mates casting curious looks his direction.

 _‘I’m not that bad.’_ Eric types. _‘If it makes you feel better, I absolutely would have run myself into the boards after seeing you in the stands.’_

Laurent sends back a smiley face with a dash for a nose.

Eric feels like he’s been blessed.

* * *

* * *

When Eric finds Laurent in the small crowd, it’s impossible not to compare him with the teen he’s been staring at photos of for days.

The resemblance to the commentator Eric had been clueless of, the photo of the child in the cigar box, the face of a man who in another life would have been some superstar pro athlete, a celebrity, even. A man who is still famous, even now, for a myriad of the wrong reasons.

“Hi.” Laurent greets softly, subdued, waiting for Eric to make a move, and Eric obliges; wrapping his arms around his partner and squeezing tightly until Laurent eventually reciprocates, waking up into his old self and not the embodying the shadow of a young man Eric’s never met.

“You came back,” Laurent breathes against Eric’s hair, voice edging on devastated. “I was so sure you wouldn’t.”

“Really think a ten year old missing persons case is going to scare me off?” Eric whispers against Laurent’s stubbly cheek, earning a miserable chuckle. “I’m sorry I’ve put you in this position. Tell me what I can do to fix it.”

“Stay.” Laurent insists, clutching at Eric desperately. “Just, _stay_.”

* * *


	6. Interlude — The Reappearance of Jack Zimmermann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a box in the Zimmermann’s Montréal home set aside for fan mail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little something to get us through the weekend. Not beta'd, may clean it up a little later, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless <3

There’s a box in the Zimmermann’s Montréal home set aside for fan mail.

Alicia’s assistant picks up a bin from the post office every two weeks, sometimes overflowing, sometimes empty, sorts out the obvious spam and leaves the rest for them to go through at their leisure. Bob tries to dedicate at least one weekend a month to answering letters, but he’s been traveling enough he’s fallen behind, leaving a wicker laundry basket in their foyer overflowing with expectation.

“Can’t get behind like this again,” Bob grouses, scanning a barely legible letter written in crayon, squinting at the signature before holding the letter out for Alicia to inspect. “Does this say ‘Emily’?”

“You’re like Santa,” Alicia soothes across from him at the dining room table, running a letter opener through each envelope before setting them aside in a neat stack between them. Large envelopes list haphazardly in a second pile, small boxes stacked in a third. “If you respond, it’s a miracle, if you don’t, you’re still a legend. And, yes, it’s Emily. That little squiggle is an ‘m’.”

“I _want_ to be a miracle.”

Bob sets Emily’s letter into the ‘respond’ pile takes an envelope from the middle stack, watching curiously as it bends, sagging to one side in his grip. A gift. Bob doesn’t think twice about ripping it open, startling himself when two heavy rings hit the desk with clatter. Opposite him, Alicia laughs.

“What’d you get this time?” She grins, leaning in to get a look at whatever prize they’ve found.

“Looks like . . . Replica rings!” Bob grabs the familiar gold one first and holds it up to show his wife. “Almost looks real, eh? It's got weight to it.”

“What year?”

“Oh, it’s a ’79, that’s different.” Bob answers, losing a bit of his excitement as he inspects the band, catching the jeweler's mark. Then, the scuffs on the metal from age and use. A, familiar, tiny hole where a diamond has popped out of the setting. It was a punch — Bob decked a guy in a bar in Vancouver when he still played for the Habs and didn’t realize he’d bent the setting on his new ring until he’d washed the blood off his hands back at the hotel. He’d never bothered to get the stone replaced, too enchanted by his own tale of bravado. A small, intimate detail that no sane fan would know about, or ever bother to duplicate.

“It’s mine.” He explains, more to himself than anyone else. "It's my ring."

Bob reaches for the envelope and finds no clear return address, though it's evident the package originated in the U.S..

Distantly, he’s aware his wife is talking to him, asking him something, but he feels like he’s under water; everything muted and muffled. Bob blinks up to find Alicia now standing over him, clear concern heavy in her posture, before turning his attention back down to the second item to fall from the envelope; eyes burning with shame as he realizes he’s scared to touch it. Alicia must sense his reticence, because she reaches down, spinning the second ring around on its bezel to reveal ‘Zimmermann’ stamped above a different, yet equally familiar number. The strangled sound that escapes Bob’s throat is painful and completely involuntary, and he can't help himself — pushing back his chair from the table to put as much distance between himself and the rings as possible.

"Bobby?"

He shakes his head, realizing the envelope is still clenched in his fist, and there's enough resistance that there has to be something else still inside. Hands shaking, Bob slides out an aged postcard, already creased and bent by his steely grip. It's a photo. Two hockey teams set against a snowy mountain vista, _‘Welcome to Mystery!’_ scrawled in faded red letters across the top. Bob _knows_ this postcard. For almost five years it stayed taped beside Jack’s game schedule; a small piece of a large set of superstitions that carried Jack all the way through Juniors. The peanut butter had to be creamy, laces had to be tied left over right, and Mario’s postcard had to stay up until the very last game of the season; not to be touched until Jack could finally hang up his skates for the year.

Alicia reaches down and takes the card from Bob's hand, and flips it around. Below Mario Lemuiex’s faded message about necessary vacations and polar bears, there is fresh handwriting. An address. She drops onto the chair beside him like a marionette relieved of their strings. Bob can’t be certain how much time passes as they sit in silence, staring down the thin piece of cardstock. For a moment, Bob isn’t sure he’s still breathing; running his fingers along the script, trying to remember what Jack’s handwriting used to look like — imagining if this is what it could be, _now_.

“A million people saw that video,” Bob tries to reason around the painful hope that’s blossomed in his chest. “This could just be another false lead.”

“The truck was stolen in Edmonton.” Alicia says softly, as if distrusting her own voice. “They didn’t get his bag, because he still made it to Whitehorse, so maybe — ”

“That kid lied to us.” Bob chokes, vision sparking. “Bittle. He tweeted that it wasn’t . . . him.”

“He may not _know_. I watched those damn videos a dozen times over — they can’t have known each other longer than a few weeks. Two months at the _most_.”

Bob’s hands are shaking so hard he can’t get a grip on his phone. He needs to call someone. Anyone. Their lawyer. The police. They need a plane and a pilot. They need to pack. They need —

It's too much. Bob shoves the letters out of the way, rests his face in his hands, and _cries_.


End file.
